


A Very Broad Skill Set

by Jo (jmathieson)



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Getting Together, M/M, Mission Fic, Pining, background Tony Stark/Pepper Potts - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-04-30 21:48:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5180924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jmathieson/pseuds/Jo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson’s job as Head of Security for Stark Industries doesn’t leave him much time (or any at all) for a personal life. So he’s not proud of it, but he goes to male strip clubs to watch attractive young men dance. He is particularly taken by one specific young man who is billed as ‘The Amazing Hawkeye.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Phil Coulson wasn't proud of himself as he sat down at a small table in a dark corner of the club, setting his drink down and loosening his tie with his other hand. He wasn't proud of himself for coming here, month after month, to look. Just to look. To relax and unwind and have a drink or two (on very rare occasions, when it had been a particularly bad week, three) away from his job and his responsibilities.

There were a lot worse places, he told himself. Places where the dancers were coerced, where they were on drugs, where the club was a barely-legal cover for a whorehouse, or worse. This place was upscale. Legal. Clean. The dancers were paid a fair wage before tips, and though he had seen one leave with a customer on occasion, it happened rarely enough that he was pretty sure it was voluntary.

Or as close to voluntary as someone in the sex trade could hope for.

And it was sex trade. He never pretended it wasn't. He came here and paid the cover charge and sat at his table and sipped his overpriced scotch while watching young men show off their bodies for money. He came here because magazines didn't do anything for him and the idea of sitting in front of his computer screen with a drink in one hand and his dick in the other was too depressing for words.

So he drank, and he looked, and then he went home and jerked off. He told himself that there were worse ways of coping with the needs of his 42 year old libido and his complete lack of a personal life.

This week had been the usual crap: two public appearance by Tony Stark to manage security for; a dozen death threats to investigate; a young woman had managed to sneak into Stark’s private suite dressed as a member of the cleaning staff, and Phil had been called to extricate her; plus two separate ongoing investigations into the illegal sales of old Stark Industry military tech.

When Tony Stark had had his change of heart in the desert and vowed to quit making missiles, bombs, and guns, he had—being Tony Stark—not stopped at half-measures. Not only had he decommissioned every piece of military equipment being built and started re-tooling the factories and re-vectoring the research labs, but he had also started working to get every single piece of equipment bearing the Stark logo out of circulation. 

One of Phil's many jobs as Head of Security for Stark Industries was to track down underground, black-market, and illegal arms deals involving Stark tech and... interrupt them. Sometimes it was as simple as informing the local authorities or putting in a higher bid. Other times a more direct approach was called for. That's why Phil's team was made up almost exclusively of highly trained, ex-military personnel. 

Phil watched as the young African-American man on the stage performed an urban dance number. He was bare-chested and wearing a pair of very tight spandex shorts and basketball shoes. The shorts didn't leave anything to the imagination, and the man's moves were athletic and impressive, even if Phil had seen his routine before, a couple of weeks previously. Phil took another sip of his drink and felt the knots in his shoulders loosen a fraction. This was why he came here.

The urban dance number finished and the young man flashed a set of bright white teeth at the small crowd, then sauntered offstage to a smattering of applause. 

There was a short musical interlude, and then the next performer came out on stage. He was new, or at least Phil hadn't seen him before. He had shaggy, sandy-blonde hair, a smooth, hairless chest, and a set of shoulder muscles that looked like they were carved from marble. Phil soon saw those muscles put to use, as the young man grabbed hold of the stripper pole in the middle of the stage and hoisted himself up it, hand-over-hand, with his legs spread wide in a perfect 180-degree split.

Phil's cock twitched in his pants. He shifted in his seat and picked up his drink, taking a somewhat larger sip than he had intended. His eyes tracked the movements of the man on stage. They were by turn graceful and suggestive, beautiful and obscene. His back arched out, head thrown back, neck muscles taut as he undulated his hips against the pole. Phil's mouth went dry. His cock was at half-mast and starting to throb. For the first time in the years that he'd been coming here, he seriously considered touching himself under the table, or fleeing to a bathroom cubicle. 

But Phil Coulson, former Army Ranger, ex-CIA, ex-NSA, and ex an agency that the public didn't even know the acronym for, was made of sterner stuff. So despite his growing arousal, he ignored his body's responses and concentrated on looking his fill at the man in stage.

His eyes tracked every move, all the while memorizing the shape of the young man's jaw, and the line of his throat. Phil's eyes swept across the broad pecs, and lingered on the small, pert nipples from which swung silver hoops. The dancer's body narrowed to his hips, where a set of washboard abs were flexing as he hung suspended from the pole by his knees and arched out towards the crowd upside down, his arms stretched out over his head, hands grasping as if he was reaching for a lover. 

Phil took another large sip of his drink as he stared at those hands. Long thin fingers that beckoned, and that Phil was sure would be strong enough to leave bruises. He imagined those fingers wrapped around his hips as that mouth sucked him down. He was fully hard and aching now, and he tossed back the last of his drink, intending to leave just as soon as the act was over so that he could go home and give himself some relief.

The young man changed position again, now grabbing the pole with his hands and swinging up to a horizontal pose, his body extended perfectly parallel to the floor. Sweat glistened on his chest, but that was the only sign of exertion. Phil wondered why someone with this much talent wasn't working as an acrobat or a dancer or some other kind of performer. Maybe this paid better. Maybe he was going to school during the day or... Phil stopped himself. Making up a sad little story about how this dancer was just trying to get his life back on track was a rabbit hole Phil knew he couldn't afford to go down. 

The young man shifted again, now with both his hands and his feet on the pole, and 'walked' his feet up, bending himself in half and giving the audience a great view of his tight, muscular ass, with the string of the purple thong he was wearing disappearing enticingly between his cheeks. Phil swallowed a groan and pressed the heel of his hand tightly to his crotch to stop himself from coming in his pants. 

The music slowed and the young man spun around the pole a couple of times, ending up with his arms and legs wrapped around it and humping it in time to the slow beat. Phil didn't know how much more he could take. The beat slowed more and more, and the young man mimed having an orgasm, which should have been cheesy but instead just aroused Phil more. 

The music stopped. The young man disentangled himself from the pole, stepped down onto the stage, and swept a low, exaggerated bow at the club's patrons. There were cheers and catcalls and whistles. Phil couldn't even bring himself to applaud. Instead he signaled the waiter and asked for a beer. Not to drink, though he did plan to have a couple of sips. To use as an ice-pack so that he could stand up and walk out of the club.

~~~~~~

The next week Phil was back. 

Last week he'd gone straight home and jerked off sitting on his sofa with his fly open and his eyes closed, hard and frantic. He'd jerked off again the next morning in the shower, and again in bed that night. He had, in fact, jerked off to images of the young man on the stripper pole every day since his last visit to the club. And he'd spent a disturbingly large amount of time during the work week thinking about coming back, and waiting for Friday.

So much time, in fact, that Phil had considered not coming at all, worried that he might be developing a full-blown obsession. In the end, he'd told himself that he deserved a little fun in his life. That getting his rocks off to the sight of a gorgeous body wasn't going to impact his job, or his health, mental or otherwise. It had been far too long since he'd been involved with anyone, and this was just a normal reaction to his sexual frustration.

So he sat at the table (one closer to the stage, this time) and sipped his drink, and waited for the show to start. Phil sat through three other acts, and tried to pace his drinking and steel himself for disappointment if the young man in purple wasn't performing tonight. This time, he paid close attention to the announcements, and so when the blond-haired performer did appear, Phil noted his stage name: The Amazing Hawkeye. 

Tonight he was wearing purple thigh-high suede boots with his g-string, and despite the fact that costumes were usually a turn-off for Phil, his cock stood up at attention as soon as 'Hawkeye' took the stage. Phil stared, wanting to memorize every detail for playback in his mind's eye. And though his eyes played over the muscular legs, arms, chest, and shoulders, and spent a fair amount of time trying to discern the shape and size of the cock hidden by the purple g-string, Phil's gaze kept drifting up to the man's face. 

Which, he realized, was older than he'd first assumed. There were faint lines at the corners of his eyes and wrinkles in his forehead that spoke of more years and more experiences. The man was in his mid-30s, at least, Phil realized, rather than his late 20s as he'd originally assumed. And now Phil's suspicious mind kicked into high gear, and he examined the man yet again, this time spotting the make-up that was covering a tattoo on one bicep, and what looked like a nasty scar on his stomach. 

'Covering them up for aesthetic reasons,' Phil wondered, 'or because they could be identifying marks?'

He took another small sip of his drink and watched Hawkeye's moves as he undulated against the pole, then flipped himself upside down, his body arched out at what seemed to be a gravity-defying angle, supported only by the bulging muscles in his arms and shoulders. Phil's cock was hard and aching, demanding his attention. He put one hand under the table, pressing the heel of his hand into the base of his cock just above his balls with enough pressure to hurt, just a little. Just enough to take the edge off and let him focus on looking at what was in front of him rather than starting to fuck the young man in his mind.

His hair seemed to be its natural color, rather than a dye job. Phil memorized the shape of his ears and how far apart his eyes were. He made a best guess as to the man's height, 5'9 or 5'10, about the same as himself. Or was that just wishful thinking again? Would this young man come home with him for the right price?

'Forget it, Coulson, you know that's never, ever going to happen,’ he told himself sternly. Paying to watch was one thing, actually paying for sex was a line he absolutely refused to cross. The mere thought sobered him and made his hard-on wilt. This gorgeous, well-built, very talented young man was, for whatever reason, a sex worker. And while that didn't, in Phil's mind, make him any less deserving of respect or compassion, it did mean that he needed to make sure he distanced himself appropriately from the things his libido was urging him to do. Like ask the bartender the young man's real name, and offer to buy him a drink.

Instead Phil watched, and finished his own drink. Then he went home and stripped and lay down on his bed and worked a dildo into his ass before jerking off and coming with a hard, sharp cry.


	2. Chapter 2

Monday morning Phil was in his office in the basement of Stark Tower bright and early, as always. He switched on his computer and logged into a database that he shouldn't still have access to, but did, thanks to the fact that some of his former colleagues in the acronym agencies were very keen on Stark military tech staying out of certain people's hands. 

He fed every detail he could remember into the search. Hair color, eye color, height, weight, distinguishing features, alias, last known whereabouts and profession. He didn't expect to get any results, and part of him was disgusted with himself for even trying, but there was something about the young man in purple. Something beyond how compelling Phil found him physically. Some spark of memory or recognition or... something. 

He added "purple" to the list of ‘miscellaneous attributes’ and hit send. He'd get whatever the databases came up with in a few hours, and in the meantime he needed to check Tony's calendar for updates, plan next month’s duty roster, and decide when and if they were going after a minor warlord in Tajikistan who apparently had a half-dozen Stark-made anti-aircraft missiles tucked away in a cave. Tony would okay the expenses for the mission, he always did. But it was up to Phil to decide if the risk to his team was worth it. 

He was looking at a recent set of keyhole satellite photos when Steve knocked on his door.

"Got a mission for us, Coulson?" Steve asked, nodding at the photos in Phil's hand. It had taken Phil a year to get Steve (his right-hand man and the de-facto second-in-command of his little team of misfit security agents) to stop calling him 'sir'.

"Maybe. Here, what do you see?" He handed over the photos, welcoming a second opinion from Steve's sharp tactical mind.

"Pretty bad terrain. Afghanistan?" 

"Tajikistan."

Steve nodded. "At least a half-day's climb. I assume this," Steve pointed to the small dark shadow that was the mouth of the cave. "Is our target?"

"Potential target. I still haven't decided if we're going in on this one, or if we'll let the locals handle it."

Steve's dubious expression matched Phil's gut instinct about the feasibility of that option. 

"It won't be for a few weeks, anyway. Stark's got too many public appearances over the next little while for us to stretch very thin."

“That's actually what I was coming to see you about. You mentioned that we could really use another body or two, and so I talked to a friend I volunteer with down at the VA. Here's his resume." Steve handed over a couple of sheets of paper. 

"Sam Wilson," Phil read off the top sheet. "How well do you know him?"

"Like I said, we volunteer together at the VA. He's a vet, obviously. Paratrooper with the 101st. Quit after the jump work he was doing started to get replaced by drone strikes. He's a good guy."

"I'll read this over and if it looks good I'll give him a call to come in and interview. Thanks, Steve."

"Sure thing. Am I still down for the black-tie thing tomorrow night?" 

"Yes, you and Natasha on the inside, and I'll be on the perimeter with Barnes.”

Steve grinned at that. "Yeah, good plan. Bucky always looks like he's choking in a tux. Right, well I'm going to go check in with the guards, and then hit the gym. Call if you need me for anything."

"I will, thanks Steve," Phil said with a warm, appreciative smile. 

Phil stowed the satellite photos in a drawer and turned his attention to Sam Wilson's resume.

Two hours later, while he was in the middle of planning the duty roster for Stark's attendance at a charity fundraiser, Phil's email chirped at him, and he looked up to see the results of his search for 'The Amazing Hawkeye'. 

"Well, well... what have we here..." Phil muttered under his breath as he scanned the text.

Three calls and two favors later, Phil was on the phone with Lieutenant Colonel Nick Fury.

"Cheese! It's been too long! How's Tony Stark been keeping you?"

"He pays the bills and keeps life interesting, sir."

"Cut the 'sir' crap, Phil. You don't report to me any more. But I expect you're calling to ask a favor."

"I'm afraid I am. I'm looking for some information about someone who once served under you. Clive Benton. 2001 to 2009. Ring any bells?"

Phil could feel Colonel Fury go still on the other end of the line.

"You got a good reason for asking?"

"I've come across someone I think is Clive Benton, and if he is, I'm considering offering him a job."

The colonel blew his breath out. "If you got his name through the channels I think you did, it will have set off a flag. You're going to get a call from someone in The Unit.”

"It's like that, is it?" Phil leaned back in his chair. This was getting very interesting indeed.

"He was never a full member. He was being considered, on probation, and would have been in after another op or two. Best marksman I've ever seen in my life, physically impressive, not stupid. Good tactical brain. He would have made it into The Unit if he could have kept it in his pants for another couple of months."

"He fuck someone's wife?"

"No, he fucked a supply sergeant and wouldn't lie about it afterwards. This was before Don't Ask, Don't Tell was repealed, and Old Iron Balls was still commander at the time, so he got railroaded out.

"And The Unit couldn't do anything about it? For a man that good?"

“We tried, but there was politics involved, you know how it is. You say you're thinking of offering him a job, with Stark?"

"With my security team, yes. We're got an op in Tajikistan coming up, and I could use another experienced man."

"Well, he's not an easy guy to get along with, but unless things have changed, he'll do what he says he'll do, and he'll have your back."

"That's all I want. Oh, and, ah, as much of his file as you could manage to get for me, if that's not too much to ask?" 

"You said you want to give him a job… He working now?"

"Yes."

"Merc?"

"No... ah..." Phil could feel himself blushing.

"Still can't keep it in his pants."

"I wouldn't know about that," Phil said, though his cock stirred and he shifted in his chair to make himself more comfortable.

"He got a bum rap. I don't care who my men want to fuck as long as they can do their jobs. You can help him out, he could probably use it. I'll send you what I can."

"Thanks."

"Hey, you deal with those Stark missiles in Tajikistan, that's one less op for my boys."

"I didn't say anything about missiles," Phil said mildly, but there was a grin on his face.

"No, you didn't. We should grab a beer sometime."

"I'd like that. I'll call you next time I'm in Washington.”

~~~~~~

For the third Friday in a row (which was unusual, because he never, ever had three Fridays clear in a row, and tonight he certainly wasn't free, but he'd re-jigged everyone else's schedules to give himself a couple of hours — boss's prerogative) Phil walked into the strip club. This time instead of taking a seat at a table near the stage, he chose a stool at the far end of the bar, near the door to the washrooms and the performers' changing rooms. 

He ordered his usual scotch, and when it came, he slid a hundred-dollar bill across the bar. "I'd like to speak to Clive Benton after his set," he said to the bartender.

The woman behind the bar didn't touch the money, instead she said, "I can tell him a customer wants to talk, but that's all. I don't make any arrangements for the performers."

"I understand. All I'm asking for is a few minutes of his time."

"You're not serving a warrant, are you?"

Phil put on his best un-assuming smile. "Do I look like a Federal Marshall?"

"No, you look like someone who's trying very hard to look like just another tired, middle-aged businessman, and almost succeeding."

"Almost?" Phil was surprised. His act usually worked. But then again, bartenders were often especially good at reading people.

"It's your eyes, they've seen too much."

Phil nodded, and picked up hundred on the bar and held it out to her. "Split it with him, or put it in the tip pool, whatever makes you comfortable."

"It's your money," she said, and the bill disappeared into her apron.

'Actually, It's Tony Stark’s,’ Phil thought but didn't say out loud. He took a very small sip of his drink and twisted around on his stool so that he could see the stage. This time while the two dancers prior to 'Hawkeye' were performing, he carefully catalogued the exits, sightlines, and defensible positions. He didn't think that it was going to come to a shootout with an exotic dancer, but from what he'd read in 'Clive Benton's' file, he wanted to be prepared for anything and everything.

He wasn't sure how Benton had managed to get into the army under an assumed name, but he wasn't actually all that surprised. The military was usually careful, but some recruiting offices were more conscientious than others when it came to checking into backgrounds. And after all, he hadn't been able to uncover Benton's real name. But he'd only had four days, and he hadn't thrown a whole lot of resources at it, yet. If Benton accepted the job, then Phil would do a much more thorough check. 

And he was having his doubts about Benton accepting. The Unit had kept discrete tabs on him for the last five years, simply making sure that he wasn't saying anything he shouldn't or hiring his services out to enemies of the state. Benton had done a stint as a bodyguard-slash-leg-breaker for a mob boss, but after that he'd stuck mostly to performing. He'd done trick shooting for a couple of different travelling carnivals before switching to exotic dancing. 

Phil took another very small sip of his drink as 'Hawkeye' took the stage. It was easier for him to keep his libido in check this time, since his analytical brain was working overtime; checking Benton's vital statistics from his military file against what he saw in front of him, making sure that the man currently shimmying up the pole was in fact Clive Benton. His eyes might not be as good as 'The Amazing Hawkeye's' (his military file recorded his eyesight as testing off the charts), but Phil was convinced. 

As Hawkeye finished his routine and left the stage to applause and cat-calls, Phil reached down and took a folder from the attaché case at his feet. He turned his back to the room and set it on the bar in front of him. Now it was show time for him.

Twenty minutes later 'Hawkeye' slid onto the stool next to him wearing tight black cut-off shorts and a purple mesh tank top. He'd gelled his hair up in spikes and put on a couple of silver chains and a fistful of bulky silver rings. Phil wondered if they doubled as brass knuckles.

"A thousand bucks flat fee for private parties, which means anything from one to a hundred people, for four hours. All equipment rental, extra costumes, whatever is on you. If I'm gonna be pole dancing I need to be able to come in ahead of time and check the setup and do a rehearsal." The speech tripped off Benton’s tongue as if he gave it regularly, which maybe he did. While he was speaking the bartender came over and put a bottle of Corona with a wedge of lime in the neck down in front of him. He nodded his thanks and took a sip, then turned to look at Phil.

“I’d like to offer you a longer-term arrangement," Phil said, sliding the folder over to him, "and while your dancing is extremely impressive, I'm more interested in your other skill set." He watched as Benton glanced down at the folder and then went perfectly still. 

Phil could see him considering, and then deciding not to bolt. Benton slowly put down his beer bottle and lifted the cover of the folder just enough to check what was inside, then closed it again and put his hand, fingers spread and silver rings gleaming, on top of it. He looked Phil up and down, once.

"You've got an automatic in a rig shoulder holster under your left arm, and a hold-out piece in the small of your back. There's a knife in your left sock and I bet your belt has a wire in it. You were military, but now you're private and well-funded."

"I'm impressed. Most people miss the belt."

"I'm not interested."

"I haven't even told you what the job is yet," Phil said evenly.

"Don't care. What I'm doing pays fine." Benton started to get up.

"I want you to come work for Tony Stark." 

Benton was standing, staring down at him with an incredulous look. Phil didn't mind the slight tactical disadvantage if it made Benton feel more comfortable, and more inclined to listen. 

"What, as a dancer? Is this just to prove how much pull he has?" Benton still had his hand on the folder and tapped his thumb a couple of times.

"No. My name is Phil Coulson and I'm head of security for Stark Industries. I want you to come work for my team. You'd be working with four or five other highly-trained specialists with skills similar to yours, doing body-guarding, anti-assassination, counter-industrial espionage, and materials retrieval. That last one means getting Stark-made weapons back from people who'd rather not give them up." 

"Yeah, right, like Stark would okay hiring a male stripper to be one of his bodyguards."

Phil was encouraged by Benton's response. Another flat refusal would have been a bad sign, but the scorn on Benton's face gave him something to work with.

"Tony Stark was videotaped last month wearing a gold lame bra and pissing into Brad Pitt's pool while singing the national anthem. You might have seen it on YouTube? He doesn't give a shit what people used to do for a living, so long as they can do the job." 

Actually, Tony was sometimes deeply offended by the resumes of the people he hired, but Phil had insisted on 100% authority over his personnel decisions when he took the job in the first place. So Tony might gripe a bit, but ultimately it didn't matter if Clive Benton was a pole dancer or a crossing guard, so long as Phil thought he would make a good part the team. 

Benton stood there, staring down at him. "I don't do that kind of work any more," he finally said.

"Beg your pardon, but you've never done this kind of work. It's varied and interesting. You can do as much or as little investigative work as you want, and as you show aptitude for. Investigations run the gamut from assessing the credibility of a death threat to finding out which one of Stark's janitors is selling the contents of the R&D department's garbage pails to his competitors. We average a major retrieval mission every couple of months, which usually means taking weapons away from warlords and drug kingpins the Middle East and South America. In between missions, there are body guarding gigs at fancy parties, charity things mostly, with lots of famous people getting drunk. The food is really good at those." Phil was talking fast, but smoothly, aiming for ‘engaging conversation’ rather than ‘used car sales pitch’. 

"Not sure I'm cut out for fancy parties."

Phil ignored that and kept talking. “Two grand a week to start, which I understand might be less than what you're making here, but we supply all your gear, and Stark offers full benefits: health, dental, all the good stuff. You're on a shift rotation with the rest of the team, with at least two weekends off per month." That got a bit of a grin. Phil figured Benton hadn't had a weekend off since he'd started working at the club.

Benton sat back down on his barstool and Phil carefully didn't smile. When Benton grabbed his beer and took a long sip, Phil picked up his still half-full glass of scotch and did the same.

"I saw you."

"Sorry?"

"I saw you watching me dance. Last Friday, and the Friday before that. You got off on it."

Phil fought the blush that was threatening to rise in his cheeks. "You are an extremely attractive man."

"You come here looking for me, or you see me and get curious?"

Phil decided honesty was the best policy. If he lied, and was caught, Benton would never trust him again. "I saw you dancing. I was very impressed. I noticed the makeup." Phil gestured at the pancake that was mostly covering a tattoo on Clive's bicep. "That was what made me curious." 

"And you have the connections to get this." Benton tapped the file with his thumb.

Again, Phil decided to put all his cards on the table. "I joined the military straight out of college. Put in four years, then applied to join the Rangers. I made it through Ranger school and was accepted into the 3rd Battalion. I had two deployments in Somalia and three in Afghanistan. After 9/11 I was recruited into the NSA and was on a strike team arresting potential domestic terrorists. After a while I got... disenchanted with some of the work we were doing. So when Tony Stark contacted me and asked me to build a unit capable of retrieving Stark-made weapons in rogue hands, well... it seemed like a better use of my time than following Muslim teenagers home from mosque." Phil had never told anyone that part, and he wasn't sure why he was saying it now, except to try to convince Benton that he was sincere. 

"But yes, I still have contacts, and since a number of people in high places approve, quietly of course, of what Tony is doing to take his weapons away from people who might use them unwisely, I have some pull." Benton had been regarding him steadily the whole time he was talking. Phil paused to take a breath and a sip of his drink. "I know Colonel Nick Fury and I spoke to him about you. He told me the gist of what's in that file, including the reason you were dishonorably discharged. He also said you were smart, and honest, and the best shot he'd ever seen."

"I am the best. That's where the 'Hawkeye' thing comes from. No one could beat me on the range, ever. Look, this all sounds really interesting, but I'm not sure it's something I want to be doing right now."

That sounded like enough of a 'maybe' for Phil, but he had a gut instinct that more hard sell was the wrong way to go, and that he should back off now, instead.

"That's understandable. Look," Phil reached slowly into his inside left jacket pocket, making sure that the fabric fell open enough for Benton to be able to see that he'd been right about the holster, and took out a business card and a pen. He flipped it over on the bar and wrote on the back, then held it out.

"That's my personal cell number on the back, in case you have any questions. Why don't you stop by my office any time Monday or Tuesday next week. I'll show you around, introduce you to some of the team, and we can talk more."

"I... I don't know."

"Just think about it, okay?"

Benton was giving him a hard look, but he finally nodded.

"Great. No need for you to call, I'll be in the office all day Monday and Tuesday. Just show up any time and tell the receptionist I'm expecting you."

"Yeah, whatever."

"I'm afraid I'm going to need that back," Phil said, gesturing at the file that was still under Benton's hand. "Colonel Fury is breaking several dozen regulations by letting me have it in the first place. My ass will be in a sling if I lose it." 

"You really know Fury.” It wasn't quite a question, more simply voicing his skepticism.

"My strike team got tactical support from one of his units my last tour in Afghanistan."

Benton nodded at that. "He was my CO my last couple of years in. He was a good guy. Fair. Wasn't his fault I broke the fucking stupid rules and got shafted for it. He tried to go to bat for me, but... no dice." Benton blew out his breath then slid the file over to Phil. 

"Come in and talk," Phil said as he picked it up and slid it back into his case.

Clive Benton shrugged, and picked up his beer.

"Well, thanks for your time." Phil didn't think Benton wanted to shake hands with him, so instead he just gave a sharp little nod, stood up, and left. He was pretty sure it was his imagination, but he could feel 'Hawkeye's' eyes burning into the back of his skull as he walked out of the club.


	3. Chapter 3

The first thing Phil Coulson did when he got to the office on Monday morning was tell the receptionist that if a man named Clive Benton showed up asking for him, and he wasn’t in his office, to page him wherever he was, no matter what. Phil figured there was only a 50-50 chance of Benton showing up at all, but he wanted to be ready if he did. So he split his day between Stark’s plans to throw a party for Pepper’s birthday, the Tajikistan mission, starting an even more thorough background check on Clive Benton, and doing a much more cursory check on Sam Wilson. If Benton said ‘no,’ or didn’t show up at all, Phil still wanted to be a man up for the Tajik mission, and Sam Wilson looked, on paper at least, like he had the credentials to fill that hole.

At 1:30 there was a knock on his door and he looked up expectantly, his stomach clenching in anticipation, but the door opened to reveal Jasper Sitwell, his second-in-command. 

“Lunch time,” Jasper announced, and Phil looked at the clock on his computer screen and sighed.

“Yes, thanks Jasper. Any idea what the cafeteria is serving today?”

“It’s Meatloaf Monday, as usual.”

Phil sighed. “Maybe I’ll go out and grab something.”

“There will be pie.”

Phil considered. Stark (or probably Pepper Potts) believed in treating his people well, so the cafeteria food was always at least as good as a 3-star restaurant, and at a fair price, too. Stark didn’t feel the need to make more money on the backs of his employees, so the cafeteria operated on a break-even basis, rather than being expected to turn a profit. And Tony had a habit of hiring a celebrity chef who caught his eye to run the place, so Meatloaf Monday might actually turn out to be a venison-and-leek tureen. The pastry chef had been there for ten years, however, and Phil was very… fond of the pies.

“I’ll have to put in an extra hour at the gym tonight if I have pie,” Phil said ruefully.

“Yes, but it will be worth it.”

Phi grinned and followed his friend out of the basement warren that housed the security offices. Over lunch they discussed the coming Tajik op, and Clive Benton. Jasper was in charge of the ‘regular’ security, including the building’s surveillance systems, the teams of uniformed guards, issuing employee IDs and access cards, etc. Jasper had a wife and three kids, and wasn’t willing to risk his neck out in the field any more. Phil didn’t begrudge him that in the least. Hell, if he had someone waiting for him when he came home at night, he might be less willing to take risks as well, but as it was…

“…but I’m also looking at Sam Wilson, the guy Steve knows, so with any luck we’ll be a six-man team no matter what happens.”

“Yeah, sucks that Hill’s leg is taking so long to heal.”

“For her as well,” Phil said with a note of caution in his voice. Maria Hill had taken a round to the calf while investigating a counter-espionage case two months ago, and Phil refused to have her on an international weapons retrieval mission until she was back to 100% mobility and stamina. She was pretty pissed about it, and taking her anger out on the targets at the range every morning between 9 and 11.

After lunch Phil headed back to his office and back to work. When 5:00 pm rolled around without Clive Benton having made an appearance, Phil tried not to feel disappointed. He hadn’t expected the man to show up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at nine on Monday morning, after all. He closed up his office and hit the employee gym, doing a half hour on the treadmill and a half hour of weight training as his penance for the large helping of cherry-rhubarb pie he’d had at lunch. Doing his bicep curls, he couldn’t help but think of Benton’s arms flexing as he hoisted his body seemingly effortlessly up the stripper pole. He shook his head to clear the image. He couldn’t afford to go there. Not if the man was potentially going to be working for him. Hopefully. ‘First thing tomorrow, I’m going to set up an interview with Sam Wilson,’ he told himself. 

~~~~~

By 4pm on Tuesday afternoon, Phil had given up on Clive Benton. He was disappointed, but not surprised. Sam Wilson’s interview was scheduled for 1 pm the next day, and between his stellar military record and Steve vouching for him, it was mostly a matter of whether or not he accepted the job once he knew more about what it entailed.

His desk phone rang. “Phil, there’s a Clive Benton here to see you.” Phil’s heart leapt.

“Thank you Cameron, I’ll be right out.” Phil stood up and then took a moment to compose himself and straighten his jacket and tie. Then he strode out of his office.

“Hello, I’m really glad you came,” Phil said with a wide, sincere smile. This time he extended his hand to shake, and after a brief hesitation, Benton took it. His grip was firm and dry and Phil could feel the large, rough calluses on his palms. “Why don’t I show you around a little first, and then we’ll talk.”

“Yeah, okay, sure.” Benton was wearing a pair of faded black jeans and a purple t-shirt that stretched tightly across his chest. Phil carefully stopped himself from checking to see if the nipple rings Benton wore when he was performing were in evidence through the shirt. He was wearing the fistful of silver rings, a chunky silver necklace, and small metallic purple hoops in his ears. Phil thought he looked even more gorgeous than he had at the club.

Phil turned and led him to the gym. “Employee gym. The facilities are excellent, sauna, towels, all that. You’d have 24-hour access, and if there’s a particular piece of equipment that you want, there’s a suggestion box here. Tony’s never turned a suggestion down, hence the balance beam. Natasha's great on it.” Phil gestured at the piece of equipment in question, and was pleased to see Benton crack a grin.

“So Stark's change of heart in the desert thing was real, then, not just some publicity stunt?”

“It was real. I only started working for him six months later, but even then he was still running around making changes, re-tooling his weapons factories to make electric cars, setting up new R&D programs. He hired Dr. Banner to help turn Stark Industries into the number one renewable energy research facility on the planet, and then turn that research into usable solutions. This whole building and the surrounding four blocks are powered on garbage.”

“Garbage?” 

“Something like a third of the borough’s garbage gets delivered here and dumped into an incinerator that burns at 6000 degrees or something like that, and powers some sort of space-aged electric turbine. I’m not sure about the details, but if you’re interested, Bruce will be happy to give you the 10-minute layman’s explanation.” Phil led Benton back out of the gym and down a corridor.

“This is the bullpen and the lounge,” Phil opened the door to a room that looked like a combination of a small indy video game development company and a children’s day-care. There were a half-dozen desks, each with a computer and monitor, scattered around one half of the large room. Most of the desks had the usual paraphernalia of family photos, novelty coffee mugs, and action figures scattered across their surfaces, though one was bare and empty. What made it different, though, were the weapons. At one desk a brunette woman was meticulously disassembling and cleaning a pair of Glock 19s. At another, a very tall, very broad-chested man with a blond crew-cut was carefully oiling a brown leather holster. The Colt .45 that normally lived in said holster was laying on the desk in front of him. 

Draped across the back of a chair at an empty desk were the component parts of a tuxedo that looked like it had been dragged through the mud, then a rosebush, then the mud again. 

“Maria, Steve, this is Clive Benton. I’m trying to talk him into joining us.” Both Maria and Steve looked up with welcoming smiles. 

“Phil giving you the ten-cent tour?” Steve asked.

“Uh, yeah.”

“Good. Make sure he shows you the range, it’s state of the art.”

“We were heading there next, actually,” Phil said, then turned to Benton. “Since everyone spends most of their time in the field, this works better than separate offices. And over here is a spot to crash if anyone needs it, a place to wind down, and of course, snacks.” Phil led Benton over and showed him the large comfortable sofas, the big TV and video-game consoles, and the kitchen area and coffee station. “Everything provided by Stark, of course. I think he updates the game setup twice a week. The range is this way.”

As Phil led Clive Benton down a back stairwell and into a sub-basement level, they could hear a series of muffled thuds. Phil swiped his ID card through the lock and swung the heavy door open. The range had two regular lanes and a tactical simulation area, as well as a large weapons locker and a full workbench and set of tools.

“Choice of weapons would be completely up to you. You can carry whatever you’re most comfortable with, but of course I encourage everyone to train with a variety of weapons, just in case,” Phil said. They both stood watching as a petite redheaded woman with a Glock 26 in each hand emptied the magazines rapid-fire into a paper target.

“Of course,” Benton said, seeming a little awed at what he was seeing.

“We’ll get you set up with a license to carry for when you’re on bodyguard duty. When we’re on an oversees mission, we usually fly in one of Stark’s private jets to avoid hassles with transporting the weaponry. Just to be clear, going in hot to take some warlord’s Stark-made missiles away from him is always our last option. We try capitalism, diplomacy, local government support, and outright bribery first. But there always seems to be someone who doesn’t want to play nice. Fewer and fewer of them, thankfully, but there are still too many weapons of mass destruction with the Stark logo on them out there, and part of our job is to destroy them or get them back.”

The redheaded woman reloaded and holstered her guns, then came over and stood in front of Phil. “This the new guy?” she asked, pointing at Benton with her chin.

“Clive Benton, Natasha Romanoff. He hasn’t decided yet. I’m giving him the hard sell.”

“He any good?”

“Better than you," Benton said, looking at her target at the far end of the range.

“Oh really? Let’s see.” Natasha looked at Phil as if she expected him to object to her challenging Benton, but Phil kept his face neutral and nodded. Inside he was thrilled. If what he had read in Clive’s file was accurate, a chance to try out their range and show off his marksmanship was the best recruiting tactic he could have hoped for.

Natasha looked skeptical, but willing to be convinced. For one thing, while her marksmanship was excellent, it wasn’t her primary skill, and secondly, she trusted him not to add deadweight to the team, at least he hoped she did. So he wasn’t surprised when she looked down at Benton’s hands and said, “Well, these are obviously way too small for you,” and headed over to the weapons cabinet.

She stuck her thumb against a sensor and it popped open. “See anything you like?”

To Phil’s profound relief, Benton’s reaction to the array of guns was not ‘kid in a candy store’. He didn’t want a gun-nut or a sadist no matter how good. He needed someone with a cool head and good judgment (which, considering how Benton got kicked out of the army, was the main thing he was worried about). 

Benton surveyed his options slowly and carefully, running his eye across the racks. He glanced over his shoulder at the target, judging the distance, Phil guessed, then reached out and picked up a Glock 19, the ‘big brother’ of the guns Natasha had been using. 

“Ammo?” he asked. Natasha moved to the side and stuck her thumb against a different cabinet. She took out a box and handed it to him. Benton went over to the workbench, took the magazine out of the pistol and carefully examined it and checked the action of the slide before loading.

“Can you set the target all the way back?”

“Sure.” Phil went over to the second lane and put a fresh paper target on the clip then he held the button down until it was all the way at the back of the range, fifty feet away. Shooting a handgun accurately at that distance took a lot of skill. He nodded at Benton and offered him a pair of earmuffs. 

Benton shook his head. “Not for just one mag.”

Phil wasn’t going to insist. Besides, Benton knew he was on trial and probably thought this was some sort of assessment of his skill. Unless he’d done a lot of shooting wearing ear protection, it would be a distraction to him. Phil decided to deal with the Health & Safety lecture later.

Benton squared up in the lane and lifted the gun with both hands, left hand supporting his right in a standard position. He sighted down the barrel and pulled the trigger. His first shot hit an inch from the center dot and 45 degrees down and to the left of center. He stared at the target for a second more, then moved, swinging into a side-on stance, left arm hanging loose by his side, sighting down his right, and pulled the trigger 7 times in rapid succession. 

Nat cocked her head to the side and Phil squinted down the lane. He could see two holes in the target. Surely Benton’s other 6 shots hadn’t missed entirely? Benton engaged the safety, pointed the gun at the floor, and hit the button to bring the target back up the lane. Natasha stepped up to his left side, Phil to his right. Benton had a cocky grin on his face, but a well deserved one.

“See, better than you. You’re pretty damn good though, I’m impressed,” he said, shooting Natasha a look.

“I’m the one that’s impressed,” Nat said in a surprised tone that Phil hadn’t heard from her very often. Benton’s first shot had obviously been a test to get the feel of the weapon and it’s accuracy. His (presumably) second had gone through the dead center of the target and the next six had been placed so that each one nipped the center hole, going around it like the petals on a flower. It was the best shooting Phil had ever seen. 

“I’m going to show him the cafeteria next, Natasha, do you want to tag along?”

“No, I think I’ll stay here and practice some more,” Nat said with another glance at Benton’s target.

Phil nodded, and motioned for Benton to precede him out the door. They jogged up the back stairs to the ground floor, and Phil was pleased to see that the dinner rush hadn’t quite started yet. He walked Benton around, extolling the virtues of the cafeteria’s pies, and maneuvered them both into line. “I’m gonna grab a bite, you hungry? Help yourself to anything you want, Tony Stark’s treat.” Phil said, taking a tray and starting to load it down with a cup of coffee, a piece of lasagna, and a slice of pie. He actually wasn’t all that hungry, but sharing a meal with Benton would be a good way to continue the interview. It would be less formal, and maybe Benton would be a little more relaxed. Benton hesitated a moment, and then shrugged and grabbed his own tray. Phil watched covertly as he chose a cup of coffee and a container of chocolate milk, a helping of beef stew, and a piece of carrot cake. 

Phil paid at the register with a company card, and led them to a quiet table in the corner, pausing to let Benton seat himself first. Phil wasn’t the least bit surprised when Benton chose to put his back to the wall. 

“So, do you have any questions about the job or the working conditions or anything at all?”

Benton finished swallowing his chocolate milk and Phil dragged his eyes away from the line of his throat and the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. He picked up his knife and fork and industriously cut himself a piece of lasagna.

“Do I get to meet Stark himself?”

“Well, you’ll certainly meet him the first time you’re on bodyguard duty, but if you’d like to speak to him before you accept the job, I can certainly arrange for that to happen.”

“Nah, I was just joking. Uh, so besides the three people I met today, and you, who else am I gonna be working with?”

“Well, Jasper Sitwell is my counterpart. He’s in charge of all the regular security guards, so we work together pretty closely on large events. He doesn’t do much fieldwork, but he leads some of the investigative work when we’re swamped, so you’ll probably be working with him at some point. Pepper Potts is Tony’s executive assistant, she does most of the coordination for large event security, and body guarding, and she’s the keeper of Stark’s schedule of appearances, etc. On the team itself, you met everyone except Bucky, James Barnes, and I’m hoping to recruit one more person in the next little while. I’m interviewing him tomorrow, as a matter of fact. But you report directly to me, and only me. Anyone, including Tony Stark himself, tells you to do something, you tell them to check it with me. Understood?”

Benton ate while Phil talked, his body hunched forward over his tray, and holding his fork wrapped in a tight fist as he shoveled food into his mouth. Phil was reminded of soldiers crammed shoulder-to-shoulder in mess halls.

“Yeah. So, uh, would I have any trouble with the rest of the, uh, team because of what I’m currently doing for a living?” 

“I don’t intend to broadcast it to anyone, and no one’s going to ask you any questions that you don’t want to answer. The man I’m interviewing tomorrow is African American, that a problem for you?”

“Fuck no. I’m no bigot.”

“Good. Assume no one else on the team is, either.”

“Yeah, okay, gotcha.”

Phil finished his food, and gave Benton the chance to finish his. He sat back, took a long, satisfying sip of his coffee, and quashed his nerves as he finally asked, “So, what do you say to joining my team?”

Clive Benton, or whatever his real name was, sat back and regarded Phil for a long moment.

“I’d want to give Lucy two weeks notice at the club. I’m not leaving her in the lurch.”

Phil was careful to keep his face as impassive as possible while his stomach did flip-flops. “That’s not a problem. I was hoping to get the Tajikistan mission off the ground in the next three weeks, but I don’t mind delaying a bit if it means I have another good man on the team. Actually, come to think of it, follow me.” Phil stood up abruptly, gathering his and Benton’s empty trays. He headed quickly out of the cafeteria, depositing the trays on a rack as they left.

He headed back down the stairs to the lower level and strode quickly to his admin’s desk. “Cameron, good, glad I caught you. This is Clive Benton he’s going to be joining us in a couple of weeks’ time, but in the meantime I’d like him to have access to the range and the gym.” Phil turned to a somewhat stunned-looking Benton.

“You’ve probably already got a gym or someplace to work out, but if we’re making you a keycard anyway, we might as well include gym access.”

“Sure thing boss,” the young man said and unlocked a drawer. “I assume you want 24-hour access for him?”

“Yes, please,” Phil said to the admin, then turned to Benton. “Once you’re officially an employee, of course you’ll use the thumbprint scanner, but that takes a couple of days to set up, so in the meantime,” Phil accepted the keycard from Cameron and held it out to Benton.

“You’re just gonna give me a key to your range and your weapons locker. Because I said I’d come work for you.”

“Yes. Is there any reason I shouldn’t? Colonel Fury said you were trustworthy,” Phil said mildly.

Benton shook his head in disbelief. “Yeah, I mean, no, there’s no reason you shouldn’t. It’s just… you’re awfully trusting.”

“Well, Stark does have every inch of the place wired with security cameras, and there’s some sort of AI monitoring system that sounds an alert when it detects anomalies in the footage, so if you try to steal the AK-47s, Jasper’s guys will have to shoot you.” Phil had a smile on his face as he said it, but he was pretty sure Benton realized that he was perfectly serious.

“Right. Well. Uh, I guess I’ll see you in two weeks, then.”

“Yes. You still have the card I gave you?”

“Yeah.” Benton patted the back pocket of his jeans, then looked embarrassed.

“Good. You have any questions about anything at all, you call me. I’m really glad you’re going to be joining us.” Phil smiled and stuck out his hand.

This time Phil got a small smile back along with Benton’s warm, firm handshake, and his heart beat a little faster. The next two weeks were going to go by very slowly indeed.


	4. Chapter 4

“Incoming!”

Phil heard the shout from Steve and threw himself down behind a rock, only realizing he’d done it when he breathed in a mouthful of dust and coughed. He heard the whistle of the shell and felt the ground shake as it hit and exploded 50 feet to his left. His left, where Benton had been on their flank, trying to take out the crew manning the mortar.

“Hawkeye, you okay?” Phil yelled.

“Fine,” came the call back, and a second later he heard the flat crack of Benton’s rifle and a yell from the ridge above them. Another crack, and this time a body tumbled, cartwheeling obscenely down the rocky slope. 

Steve called for an advance. Phil scrambled out from behind his rock and counted off. Steve was in the lead, in the middle front, as always. Nat was on his left, low and lithe as a cat. Bucky on his right, moving more like a wolf, silent and deadly. Sam Wilson was on Phil's right, his head constantly moving as he checked 360 degrees around himself and even looked up regularly, in case danger was coming from above. Phil didn’t move until he saw Benton scrambling up the slope, his lean, athletic body eating up the rough terrain like it was a golf green.

Phil hated that it had come down to a frontal assault, but sometimes there weren’t any other options. The group they were fighting was a splinter group of a splinter group. They’d been almost impossible to talk to let alone negotiate with, and it had been made clear to Phil that if Mr. Stark wanted his rockets back, everyone else in the area would be quite happy to look the other way while they went in and took them. 

They had been in the mountains three days, doing an extensive recon to make sure that the weapons they were after were actually there, and that the satellite photos had given them an accurate picture of both the terrain and the number of insurgents. Then they’d waited until some of the group had headed out for a supply run. That left, at most, eight men in the cave on the ridge they were climbing. Or six, now, assuming that Hawkeye had hit his target both times. Phil was willing to bet he had. Even though this was his first mission, from the minute their boots were on the ground, Benton had been all business; checking his gear and his weapons, listening carefully to the briefing, doing a superb job of scouting the territory, and contributing insightful comments to the final planning. Just as Colonel Fury had said, he was a top-rate strategic thinker, an asset to the team. Phil glanced briefly over at Sam Wilson, who was also aquiting himself extremely well, keeping an eye on Steve as well as Phil and following their leads. 

They reached the last bit of cover in front of the mouth of the cave and were being peppered uselessly with AK fire. 

“Steve and Bucky go right, Nat and Hawkeye go left. Sam and I will cover you from here. You know the drill: take prisoners if you can, but don’t take any chances, if they shoot, shoot back and shoot to kill. Everyone clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Steve said, and Phil saw Benton saying “Yes,” and clamping his mouth shut on the ‘sir’. Bucky and Nat just nodded. 

Phil watched over the barrel of his rifle while the team moved into position. Steve looked to him for the final ‘Go’ and he nodded. From his side of the cave entrance, Steve signaled a countdown and they went in, Bucky and Nat, Steve and Hawkeye high and keeping to the walls. Phil heard two shots, then accented voices shouting “Surrender.” Sam twitched next to him.

“Easy. They know what they’re doing,” he said. 

Sure enough, a minute later, Steve’s voice yelled “Clear.” Phil got up and nodded to Sam to follow him. He walked carefully towards the cave, still on high alert, just in case.

Inside were one body and five prisoners, all on their knees with their hands on their heads, facing the left-hand wall. Stacked against the other wall were crates bearing the Stark logo. 

“Nicely done. Nat and Sam, stay with the prisoners. Hawkeye, cover the body, please. Steve and Bucky, help me with search and inventory. Watch out for booby traps.”

Even with two new members and missing Maria Hill, the team worked together smoothly. Bucky started to open the crates to check their contents while he and Steve carefully searched the cave. They piled food and water to one side and heaped all the insurgents’ personal possessions on a blanket. Everything else, guns, ammunition, grenades, rockets and mines they counted, photographed, and stacked against the back wall. But because they needed to be careful and thorough, checking for traps and tripwires before each crate was moved, the whole process took a couple of hours.

When they were finally done, Phil turned back to Nat. “You and Barnes set the charges. Everyone else; we’re moving the prisoners off to a safe distance. Bring the food and water, their personal effects and something we can rig as a sun shelter.”

Sam looked skeptical but followed Steve’s lead as he started gathering up the boxes of food and canteens. Benton heaved himself up off the crate he’d been sitting on, and something about the way he moved caught Phil’s eye. He stepped closer to Benton and glanced down at where there was a bandana tied around his thigh.

“You hit?” Phil asked, seriously but quietly, not making an issue of it.

“Just a scratch. Chip of rock or something from one of the mortar rounds. I’m fine, really.” And to prove that he was indeed, fine, he picked up the big bundle of the insurgent’s possessions and slung it over his shoulder. Phil grabbed the last of the food and followed him out.

“This is awfully humanitarian of us, isn’t it?” Benton asked as they slid-climbed back down the rocky slope.

Phil wasn’t sure if Benton was intentionally changing the subject or if he was genuinely curious, but he answered anyway. “We’re private citizens, here only by the courtesy of a foreign government that Tony Stark has been playing nice with. If the locals can accuse us of leaving their people to starve to death, or burning Qur’ans,” Phil explained, gesturing to the bundle on Benton’s back. “That local government might not be so friendly next time.”

Benton nodded. “Makes sense.” 

They found a spot where they could drape a tarp across an outcrop of rock to form a crude shelter and piled the food and water under it. Phil dug a handful of zip-ties out of his pack and handed them to Steve, who started restraining the prisoners’ wrists and ankles.

“But it’s okay to leave them tied up? How’re they supposed to eat or drink?” Benton asked.

“If someone left the six of us zip-tied and walked off, how long would we stay that way?” Phil wasn’t being condescending, he was letting Benton work out his logic.

“Uh, about 30 seconds.”

“Yes, and if we’d been thoroughly, professionally searched and relieved of all our weapons?”

“Uh, maybe five minutes, ten at the most.”

“Exactly. Fine minutes is the lead we’ll have on these people once we leave. Luckily we’ve got transport on stand-by.” Phil pulled out his radio to arrange for exfil, watching carefully for the slight limp as Benton turned to help Sam and Steve with the prisoners. A few minutes later, Bucky and Nat came jogging down the slope. 

“All set, boss,” Nat said.

“Good. Is everyone ready to move out?” Phil got nods all around. He tossed the compact video camera to Sam. “Here, you do the honors. Whenever you’re ready, Barnes.”

Bucky pulled a remote out of the cargo pocket of his fatigues and extended the antenna. Phil put his fingers in his ears. The cave blew up with a very satisfying ‘bang’. They waited until all the rocks and shrapnel had fallen, and Steve pulled out his binoculars to make sure they weren’t leaving a fire burning. “All clear, sir.” Steve said, lowering the glasses.

“Good. Move out. The chopper is meeting us 2 miles south of here in an hour.” 

They headed out at a jog in the same formation they’d used while advancing on the cave. After a couple of minutes, though, Steve held up his hand for a halt. He turned to look behind them, checking that they couldn’t see the prisoners.

“What are the real coordinates, sir?”

“Mile and three-quarters due east,” Phil said looking at the GPS on his watch.

“You’re a sneaky sonovabitch, Coulson,” Benton said, with what looked like an approving grin.

“No point in making it too easy,” he grinned back as they started to move again.

Later, as they were climbing into the chopper, Phil made sure he ended up sitting beside Benton. He spent a couple of minutes with his eyes closed and his head tilted back against the bulkhead, listening to Benton breathe. The fact that he could hear the man breathing over the sound of the rotors was the first indication that there was something wrong. The second was how fast and choppy his breathing was. When Phil opened his eyes and turned his head he could see a faint sheen of sweat on Benton’s face.

“How’s the leg?” he leaned in close to ask.

“Stings a little.”

“We’ve got a medic who will take a look at it as soon as we land.”

Benton just nodded and leaned his head back. Phil suppressed the urge to squeeze his hand or pat him on the knee, something, anything, just to make contact, to reassure. Instead he went forward to use the radio and make sure that a medical team would meet them when they landed in Peshawar. It was one of the many times that he was glad Tony Stark had deep pockets and believed in taking care of his people, because Phil knew he’d be able to get first-class medical treatment for Benton, if he needed it. And it looked like he would.

He wondered if he should insist on looking at Benton’s leg now, so that he could maybe tell the medical team what to prepare for, but he would hardly know what he was looking at, and besides, it obviously wasn’t bleeding, so how bad could it be? Maybe Benton had food poisoning, or the flu, or… Phil went back and sat down next to him. Apart from the rapid breathing and sheen of sweat, he didn’t look any worse for wear. They all looked tired, of course. Steve was staring out a window, watching the landscape roll by below him. Sam was keyed up, listening to music through his headphones and tapping the beat out on his leg. Bucky was fast asleep, and Nat… Nat shot a significant glance at Benton, and then raised her eyebrow at him.

Phil inclined his head towards the empty seat on his other side and Nat slid into it. “I’ve radioed ahead for a medical team to meet us,” he said into her ear, and she nodded. Of the five of them, Natasha had spent the most time with Benton. He had made liberal use of his access to the range during the two weeks he’d been working out his notice at the club, and he had Nat had also taken to sparring together. Which had, apparently, become quite a lunch-time spectator extravaganza at the Stark building gym. Phil had dropped by once, just to say ‘Hi’ to Benton, because he didn’t want to pressure the man. Watching him spar with Natasha dressed in shorts and a muscle shirt had awakened Phil’s libido, and he’d had a difficult time putting the images out of his mind. 

But he had. Benton was now a member of his team. Lusting after someone who works for you was a recipe for disaster, so Phil had managed to bury his feelings by the time Benton’s start date rolled around. Now Phil was feeling a whole other set of emotions. Worry and protectiveness and apprehension. He wanted Benton to be okay. Wanted to take care of him. Wanted Benton to let himself be taken care of. Preferably by Phil… Phil closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath through his nose. ‘Get a handle on it,’ he told himself firmly. ‘Get a handle on it and get it out of the way. Do your job. Take care of your team.’

The chopper banked once and then came in for a landing inside the walled compound belonging to some sultan or other on the outskirts of Peshawar; the home of a dear friend of Tony’s, of course. They’d been here before, a few times in fact, since Peshawar was a very useful jumping-off point for retrievals in parts of Afghanistan. And the Pakistani government was very keen to play nice with the man who was currently developing solutions to the growing energy crisis. Phil didn’t move from his place next to Benton even once the rotors had slowed and Steve got up and opened the door. A Pakistani man in a white coat clutching a large red duffle (rather than the usual doctor’s black bag, Phil was relieved to see) folded himself in half and he ran across the courtyard. Steve stepped aside and took his arm to help him onto the chopper. 

“Someone is hurt?”

Steve’s eyebrows went up and he looked at Phil, who was motioning to the doctor. “Over here,” he called, and then. “The doc’s just gonna take a quick look at your leg,” to Benton.

Benton’s eyes fluttered open and his head lolled to the side. He blinked up at Phil, then his focus sharpened. “Coulson?”

“Yes. I’m right here. I’ll stay with you. The doctor’s going to take a look at the scratch on your leg.” 

“Head hurts,” Benton mumbled as the doctor knelt in front of him. The rest of the team stood around uncertainly as the chopper pilots unstrapped, shut down, and climbed out.

“You guys go shower and change. Steve, call in to Pepper and Jasper for me, will you? Let them know the mission status, and that Benton’s injured, but we don’t know how badly yet.” Steve nodded and left, with Bucky behind him and Sam trailing after them. Nat made it as far as the door and then stopped. She turned back and Phil gave her a nod. Benton knew her, and hopefully trusted her the most. It might be good to have her nearby.

The doctor had unwrapped the bandana from around Benton's leg and cut away the fabric of his fatigues. Phil didn’t gasp when he saw the red, swollen skin underneath, though he wanted to. 

“Ah, yes. A nasty infection. Very common. Antibiotics will be required.” The doctor looked up at Phil.

“Whatever he needs, no matter the cost,” Phil said.

“Indeed.” The doctor pulled a phone out of his pocket and dialed. He spoke rapidly for a minute, but Phil only caught the word ‘streptomycin’ and the name of their host. 

“Pharmacy will deliver antibiotics right away. Mr…” The doctor looked up at Phil again.

“Benton, Clive Benton,”

“Mr. Clive Benton should now come inside and lie down. He needs rest and fluids and Tylenol for his fever as well.”

“But he’ll be okay,” Phil heard himself ask, “the wound on his leg, it’s not serious?” 

“Minor injury, just a scratch. But enough to let the bacteria get in and cause trouble. He will be okay soon. You will help him up?” The doctor was climbing to his feet and gathering up his case. He looked almost disappointed not to have to perform an emergency appendectomy or something. 

“Of course. Nat?” Phil pulled one of Benton’s arms over his shoulder, and Nat did the same on the other side. 

“We should have had Steve stay if there was going to be heavy lifting,” she said.

“Wass ‘apning?” Benton mumbled.

“We’re taking you inside where there’s air conditioning and a nice soft bed,” Nat said.

“And the doctor is going to give you some antibiotics. You’re going to be fine, Clive,” Phil added. 

“Head hurts,” Benton said.

“I know, we’ll give you some Tylenol for that just as soon as we get inside. Can you make it down the–“

“Yeah, I can make it. M’okay.” Benton said, and he seemed to pull himself together and focus through sheer force of will. They negotiated the stairs down from the chopper and what seemed like a half a mile across the courtyard, where they were met by two young men carrying an honest-to-goodness sedan chair. 

Phil shook his head, but Nat shrugged prosaically as they helped Benton onto it. The young men took off at a jog and Phil had to hurry to keep up with them. Three corridors and one set of stairs later they were in a room that looked like it had been airlifted out of a 5-star Hilton. It was thoroughly modern and completely Western, down to the Keurig coffee maker and an issue of Sports Illustrated on the bedside table. 

Phil and Nat helped him out of the sedan chair and the doctor dismissed the boys with a word. 

“Let’s get you out of the rest of this gear, okay, then you can lie down and have a rest.”

“Yeah. Tired.”

Nat attacked his flack vest and shirt, and Phil was struggling with the remains of Benton’s pants when the doctor handed him the pair of bandage scissors. Phil pushed the thought that he was cutting Benton’s pants off him out of his mind and did the job. Benton was swaying dangerously by the time they’d stripped him down to his skivvies, so they lowered him carefully to the mattress. Nat pilled pillows behind his back and Phil manhandled him into place propped up against them.

“Excellent, now please to be swallowing these,” the doctor handed Phil an un-opened one-dose paper packet with the Tylenol logo on it. 

Phil appreciated the gesture of the sealed packet. He tore it open and shook the pills into his hand. Nat appeared with a glass of water. Benton was conscious, but just.

“Benton, I need you to swallow these. It’s Tylenol, for your headache and fever, okay? Clive?”

Benton nodded and opened his mouth.

“Good, here.” Phil sat next to him on the bed and popped the pills into his mouth, then held the glass of water for him to drink. 

“If you don’t mind, while we are waiting for the antibiotics to arrive, I will do a more complete examination, just to make sure there isn’t anything else amiss.”

Phil saw the sense in that. “The doc’s going to take a look at you now, Clive, just to make sure, okay?”

Benton’s unfocussed eyes swam until they met his. “Stay?”

“Yes, of course, I’ll stay here with you the whole time. Natasha too, if you like.” Benton nodded, and Phil moved out of the way to let the doctor work. 

He took Benton’s temperature and blood pressure, palpated his abdomen, and checked, as far as he could, for any other injury. Then he took out a pen and drew around the edges of the large raised angry red welt on Benton’s leg. “If it expands too much, or too quickly past these lines, then we will need to move him to a hospital for more aggressive treatment, but that shouldn’t be necessary.”

“Just a scratch from a rock caused that?” Natasha said. There was a note of skepticism in her voice. 

“The scratch, no. The bacteria caused this. Probably staph. Very common. Same bacteria that causes strep throat, which is why he’s so miserable. Do you know if he has had a tetanus shot recently?”

“He was in the US army until about four years ago, so he would have had one then.”

The doctor nodded. “Was he ever deployed in the Middle East, do you know?”

“Two tours in Iraq, one in Afghanistan.” Normally Phil wouldn’t have revealed details of Benton’s past in front of Nat, but these were extenuating circumstances.

“Good, then he most likely up to date on his hepatitis and typhoid vaccinations as well. Well my friend,” the doctor said patting Benton’s shoulder, “you are going to be just fine, I assure you. Just as soon as–“ the doctor was interrupted by a knock of the door, and a boy in white pants and a tunic came in.

“Delivery for Dr. Hiraj, I was told to bring it here?”

“Yes, excellent, thank you.” The doctor put his hand in his pocket and gave the boy a coin.

Phil realized that he was still in tac gear and didn’t even have his wallet or ID on him, let alone any cash. There were emergency funds in one of the go bags, and Steve would have made sure they got off the chopper safely. 

“We will reimburse you of course, for–“ Phil started, but Dr. Hiraj waved him off.

“It is of no consequence. I am personal physician to His Excellency Raja Malik, for which he pays me very well. It is an honor to attend to the Raja’s American friends, who are here to… what is the expression… ‘put beyond use’ weapons which would only cause more bloodshed, more pain and suffering for my people and others. Now, your friend needs to swallow two of these, and then sleep will be the next best medicine for him.”

Phil saw Natasha regarding the pill bottle with some suspicion, but there wasn’t much they could do. They either had to trust the doctor that he was giving Benton the right drugs, or move him somewhere else. Phil gave Nat a small nod, and she returned it with a hard look. 

“We’ll take turns sitting with him,” Phil said. That seemed to be good enough for Nat. They roused Benton and get him to swallow the antibiotics, then re-arranged his pillows so that he could sleep. 

“I will come back to check on him in four hours. Here is my phone number, call if there is any change in his condition. I will not be far away.“

“Thank you very much, doctor,” Phil said as he saw the man out. Then he turned to Nat. “I’ll stay with him for now. You go grab a shower and change and let the others know what the situation is. Relieve me in a couple of hours.”

“Yes, okay.” 

After Nat left, Phil busied himself for a couple of minutes drawing the curtains and dimming the lights and checking the air con setting. Then he stripped out of his tac vest, web belt, and boots, and emptied the spare clips and energy bars out of his pockets. 

Feeling considerably lighter, he dragged a comfortable-looking armchair over to the side of the bed and sat down. For long minutes he just watched Benton breathing. He looked younger, asleep. Younger and more innocent. Most people did, he told himself. Hell, Steve looked like a damn choirboy when he was asleep. But Phil couldn’t help the wave of affection and protectiveness he felt. Benton had captivated him from the moment he’d first seen the man dancing in that dammed club. But nothing was ever going to happen between them. Phil was resigned to that fact. So instead, he would channel his feelings into being a friend. He figured Benton could use one.


	5. Chapter 5

When Phil got back to his office after the mission, there was an encrypted email waiting for him from the freelance investigator he’d hired to do Benton’s background check. He’d specified a deep but extremely careful search. ‘If he catches wind that someone’s digging, he’ll probably rabbit, and I do not want that to happen. Utmost discretion, you understand?’ had been Phil’s instructions. 

The report was extremely thorough. For one thing, he’d managed to track down Benton’s real name, which turned out to be ‘Clint Barton’. Phil sat back in his chair and rolled that around in his mouth. He liked it. It suited the man better than ‘Clive,’ somehow. He’d have to be careful not to slip up and use his real name by mistake. 

Phil kept reading. The records of Benton’s childhood painted a depressing picture: Alcoholic father, abused mother (there was no record of Benton and his brother also being abused, but Phil knew the chances were high), orphaned at age eight and placed in foster care with his brother, Barney Barton. Barney had gotten into trouble with the law and dragged Clint into it with him, which had culminated in some of Barney’s ‘friends’ beating the boy up to teach him a lesson. After that they’d been placed in separate homes, and Clint hadn’t, as far as anyone knew, seen Barney again. Was that why he changed his name? Was he trying to distance himself from his family, or hide from his brother?

The investigator had even posed as a Social Services manager looking into claims of abuse to interview some of Clint’s former foster parents, and he’d managed to track down some of the people who’d been placed in the same foster homes, and talked to them too. They drew a picture of a shy boy who had learned to mostly stay out of trouble by keeping his head down, but who couldn’t seem to help his own hot-headed reaction to injustice, real or perceived.

Reading the file through again, Phil had a hard time keeping his emotions in check. He wanted so badly to help somehow, even though he knew that was probably impossible. Besides, Clint seemed to be doing fine. He’d recovered well from the mission and was up and wise-cracking with his new team-mates within 48 hours. He and Nat seemed to particularly hit it off. Phil deliberately stopped that train of thought. If Clint and Nat hooked up, so be it. He had no right to feel jealous.

~~~~~~

“This is dumb.”

“Learning how to eat politely at a fancy dinner party so that you don’t draw attention to yourself is a necessary skill,” Phil said mildly. Clint was sitting across the table from him, looking decidedly uncomfortable in the tuxedo he was wearing. As if to confirm Phil’s suspicions, he raised a hand and slid a finger into his collar, tugging on it slightly.

“It’s too tight,” he whined when he saw Phil looking pointedly at him. 

“It fits perfectly. That tux is tailored to your exact measurements.”

“I still don’t see why I have to learn this stuff. I mean why can’t Nat and Cap do all the dress-up stuff? They’re good at it.”

“Because they might be unavailable, or needed elsewhere. Bodyguarding Stark at formal events is a big part of the job.”

“I know, I just…” Clint looked down at his plate and toyed with the place setting, moving the forks a few millimeters back and forth. “I know I’m an uneducated hick, you don’t need to rub it in.” 

“Is that what you think this is about? Clive, right now Sam Wilson is at the YMCA wearing water wings and learning to stick his head underwater and blow bubbles in the shallow end of the pool with seven other adults who never learned how to swim. I had to teach Steve how to hotwire a car, and Nat how to open a bank account and use a laundromat. Do I need to teach you any of those things?”

“Fuck no.”

“Well then.”

“Sam in water wings, huh?” Clint looked up with a grin.

“They’ve probably progressed to pool noodles by now.” Clint laughed out loud at that and Phil smiled back at him. Clint looked so gorgeous when he was happy and relaxed that Phil tried to make him laugh as often as possible. Luckily they seemed to share the same sardonic sense of humor.

“Okay, so tell me which fork do I use for the snails again?”

Phil signalled the waiter that he’d arranged to have serve them, and talked Clint through the appetizer, salad, soup, main, desert, and cheese courses. 

“Jesus, I’m gonna need an extra workout after all this food,” Clint said as he sat back and patted his stomach. 

“You and me both,” Phil said.

“Yeah, you work as hard as any of the rest of us; I’ve seen you in the gym. Hey, how about we spar a few rounds? Maybe I can even teach you a trick or two.”

Phil doubted that Clint knew anything about hand-to-hand that he didn’t, but he was more than willing to be proven wrong, so he grinned and accepted. “Give me a couple of hours to digest, first. Meet you in the gym at three?”

“Perfect. Nat’s giving me my dancing lessons between two and three, so that works out.”

“How’s that going, by the way?” Phil tried to keep his tone casual. It was logical and reasonable to have Natasha teach Clint how to dance, and if they enjoyed spending time together, well, that was good too. Phil nodded to the waiter to indicate that they were done and stood up from the table, with Clint following him. 

“Fine. It’s kinda fun, actually. A lot like sparring, especially the way Nat explains it. Anticipating your partner’s moves from their little tells, and moving with them. It’s pretty cool. Plus it helps that I pick up on choreography pretty quick. Had plenty of practice at that.”

“Better than learning which fork to use.”

“Hey, I’m sorry for mouthing off earlier. I hate feeling dumb about stuff like that.” Clint looked sincerely contrite. It was very cute.

“Everyone hates feeling dumb, I think.” 

“Yeah probably. God I’m gonna be glad to take this damn monkey suit off, though.”

“You should practice dancing in it. And be glad I don’t make you spar in it, too.” Phil said, and Clint groaned. 

“Oh, god you’re right. I’ll probably rip the whole damn shoulder out if I need to throw a punch.”

“Nope,” Phil said with a gleam in his eye as they got to the elevators and Clint punched the button. “There’s just enough spandex in the fabric to make it give. You’ll be able to run and fight and shoot in it if you need to. But it helps to get used to how the cuffs feel when they ride up, and to remember that the jacket flaps open when you’re running. And don’t forget to wear it to the range and practice drawing from the shoulder holster as well,” Phil said as the elevator arrived and they stepped in.

“God how much shooting have you done in a suit?” 

Phil couldn’t tell if Clint was impressed or horrified.

“More than I want to think about, believe me.”

“Yeah, okay. Point taken. Well, this is me.” Clint paused in the open door, his hand covering the sensor to keep it that way. “Uh, Coulson?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks. For, uh, everything.” 

Phil looked into Clint’s warm eyes and smiling face and felt a sharp pang of longing which he shoved down out of habit.

“You’re welcome,” he said hoping he sounded as sincere as he felt. Clint flashed him one last smile and released the elevator door. As it slid closed, Phil leaned back against the wall and sighed. ‘It’ll get easier,’ he told himself. ‘Eventually. I hope.’

~~~~~~

“Uh, Coulson?”

Phil looked up sharply at the sound of Clint’s voice. He was supposed to be in the ballroom already, mingling with Tony’s guests. It was Tony’s biggest charity bash of the year and the number of important people they were protecting… Phil had a headache just thinking about it. 

“I’m sorry. I tried. I paid attention when you showed me and I thought I remembered, but…” Clint had a twisted length of black fabric in his hands that Phil realized was his bow tie. The expression on his face was so crestfallen that Phil couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.

“It’s okay,” he said, “knots are tricky unless you’ve practiced a lot. Here…” Phil took the tie out of his hands and flipped his collar up. He looped the length of material around Clint’s neck, and then faltered. “Turn around.”

“What?”

“I can’t do it from the front like this, it’s backwards for me. You’re going to have to turn around.”

“Oh, sure.” Clint moved and Phil let go of the tie to give him space, then reached around his shoulders to grab it again. He resolutely ignored how it felt to be pressed up close to Clint’s back, feeling the warmth of his body and smelling the clean scent of his aftershave. Clint had shaved particularly carefully, Phil noticed. He smoothed out the tie and then tied it carefully. Then forced himself to drop his arms and take a step back, when everything in him was screaming to stay close, just for one more second.

“There,” it came out rough and Phil cleared his throat as Clint turned around. “You’re done.”

“Thanks, boss. I’m really sorry, I just feel so awkward in this damned monkey suit still, that when I had trouble with the tie I got all flustered and panicked a little.”

Phil shushed him with a wave of his hand. “It’s fine. Now get going; the guests have already started to arrive.”

“Aren’t you coming?”

“In a couple of minutes. I’m waiting for all of Jasper’s teams to check in, and then I’ll be there.” As he spoke, he watched Clint fidget with the collar of his shirt and cuffs of his jacket. “And try to stop fidgeting with the tux, please?” He tried to say it was warmly and gently as he could.

“Sorry. It’s just that I know I look ridiculous in it, so it-“

“You look gorgeous.” Phil’s mouth had engaged before his brain could intervene.

“Don’t tease me, Coulson, please.” Now Clint was looking down at the carpet, miserable again.

Phil couldn’t help himself. He stepped up to Clint and lifted his chin so that Clint’s grey-green eyes were looking into his. “You. Look. Gorgeous.” 

Clint blushed. “Okay, uh, thanks. I, uh, I guess I’d better go.” 

“Yes. And remember, it’s the fork with only two prongs for the snails.” Phil desperately needed to diffuse the charged atmosphere. It worked. Clint laughed. 

“Got it.” Clint gave a little wave and headed towards the noise of the party. 

Phil watched him leave, not even bothering to try to drag his eyes away from the way the perfectly-tailored suit hugged Clint’s form. Then he sighed, and plugged his communications unit into his ear. 

The rest of the team would be relying on eyes and ears only, because Tony insisted that he didn’t want his people looking like “movie secret service agents” at the party, but Phil needed to be in touch with Jasper’s perimeter security teams in case of an incident. Once he’d checked that everything was clear he headed for the ballroom himself.

~~~~~~

Phil was standing with his back to a pillar, listening to Jasper’s teams check in and watching Clint dance with Pepper. He was graceful and confident, smiling as he twirled her expertly across the floor. He looked… happy. Phil shoved down yet another pang of longing. His eyes swept the room, spotting Natasha dancing with Bruce. Sam was over by the chocolate fountain and Steve was leaning in a way that he undoubtedly thought was casual near the stage. Bucky was by the large French doors, and Maria was sitting at a table in the middle of the room, chatting with a Vermont state senator and her wife while her eyes swept the room, like Phil’s were doing. As usual, his team was doing a superb job of covering the ground and keeping the whole room under observation. 

Phil’s eyes cut back to Clint just in time to see Tony walk up and put a hand on his shoulder. Clint and Pepper stopped to let Tony cut in, Pepper leaning her head close in to Clint’s, undoubtedly to thank him for the dance. Clint moved so fast that Phil only saw a blur as he shoved Pepper down, moved in front of Tony and drew his pistol from under his jacket.

“Gun!” Clint shouted, and Phil was already moving, plowing through the crowd toward him. He heard two shots, one right after the other, and then the screaming started. 

“Shots fired in the ballroom,” Phil said into his comms as he saw Clint crumple to the floor. Ten feet away a wide circle was forming around a second body on the ground, but Phil saw Natasha and Bucky pushing through the horrified guests so he ignored it and knelt beside Clint, who was clutching his stomach.

“Man down. Paramedics to the ballroom. Now!” Phil said into the comms, cutting through the noise of Jasper ordering his security teams to seal off the premises. Above him, Steve and Sam were moving the crowd back. Phil saw the red stain spreading on Clint’s white shirt and waistcoat. He slapped one of his hands on top of Clint’s in a futile attempt to stem the flow. He put his other hand under the back of Clint’s neck to make sure his airway was open. 

“Clive, can you hear me? Open your eyes if you can hear me. The paramedics are on their way. You’re going to be fine.”

“Coulson?”

“Yes, I’m here. Don’t try to talk.”

Clint ignored him. “Did I get him?”

Phil looked up and Steve nodded.

“Yes, you got him. He’s down. You saved Pepper and Tony.”

Clint’s eyes closed again and he smiled, then his lips moved, but Phil couldn’t hear him over the noise of the crowd. He leaned in closer.

“My real name’s Clint. Clint Barton,” he gasped. “Want to hear it once more before–“ 

Phil cut him off. “You are not going to die,” he whispered urgently into Clint’s ear. “Do you hear me, Clint Barton? You are not going to die. Just hold on, Clint. Hold on. You’re going to be fine. Stay with me, Clint. Please.”

Then Sam was leading the paramedics through the crowd. Phil stayed exactly where he was until a paramedic asked him to move, then he shuffled back on his knees. When he tried to stand he wobbled, and Steve was there with a hand under his elbow steadying him. Natasha appeared on his other side.

“Situation report,” Phil said, willing his voice not to shake as he watched the paramedics load Clint onto a stretcher. 

“One gunman with a snub-nose revolver. Benton put him down with a single shot to the head—got him right through he left eye. No one we recognize, yet. Maria is with Tony and Pepper.” Nat delivered the sit-rep in her usual flat tone, and that reassured Phil more than anything. If Nat was calm, then things were under control. 

“Tell them Tony Stark is paying for it, whatever he needs,” Tony was telling the paramedics as they started to wheel the stretcher out.

“Where?” Phil asked, looking up at his team who, except for Bucky, were gathered around him and Tony and Pepper.

“They’re taking him to University General,” Sam said.

“Someone should go with him, Natasha?” Phil turned pleading eyes on her.

“Yes, okay. I’ll call as soon as the doctors tell me what’s going on.”

‘Thank you.” Nat touched his shoulder briefly, then followed the paramedics. Phil took a breath and pushed everything except his job out of his head. 

“Jaz, we’re secure in here as far as we can tell. Call the cops and tell them we have a body on the ground and a man on the way to hospital.” Phil said into his comms. Then he looked at Tony. “What do you want to do, sir?”

“Do, what do you mean?”

“Well, it looks like there was just the one perpetrator, and he’s been dealt with. The police will be here soon, and they’ll want to ask everyone a lot of questions, so I’m asking if you want to continue the party or start to evacuate your guests?”

“Shit. I need a drink. Someone find a waiter and get me a scotch.” Tony rubbed his hand over his face and blinked. “Okay. Tell the band to play something quiet and slow. Anyone who wants to stay to eat my food and drink my booze can stay. Can we set up some sort of a… room or something for the cops to work in?”

“A situation room, yes, sir. Steve?” Phil looked up.

“On it,” Steve said, and Phil saw him signal Bucky who was on the periphery of the crowd, watching everything carefully. 

The next three hours were mostly routine. The lieutenant of the local precinct knew Phil and his team. This wasn’t the first time that they’d had to use deadly force to prevent Tony or one of his guests from being shot during an event. The perp turned out to be one of the many (many) wackos who sent Tony death threats regularly. This one seemed to believe that Tony had somehow ‘let America down' by stopping manufacturing weapons and that sustainable energy research was a ‘Communist Chinese plot to undermine this Great Nation’. They had a file on him two inches thick, but he’d managed to sneak into the party under an assumed name. And while Tony’s surveillance algorithms were good, they’re weren’t quite good enough to manage a facial recognition scan for each and every guest, yet, although after this, Phil wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if Tony put in a couple of all-nighters working on those very algorithms.

Phil’s phone had rung twice; Nat calling from the hospital both times. The first time to say that Clint was in surgery, and the second to say he was out, and the doctors were optimistic that he’d make a full recovery.

“I’ll be there as soon as we’ve wrapped things up here,” Phil said, knowing full well that that could be hours, still.

“It’s okay, I’ll stay. I don’t mind.”

“I know. Thank you Natasha, but I… I want to be there too.”

“I understand,” Nat said softly, and Phil wondered if she really did. If maybe Clint had said something to her? What if Phil had been more obvious that he thought about his feelings? Maybe he should talk to Nat, find out how she felt about Clint. If there was anything between them… Phil sighed, shoved those thoughts away, and went back to work.


	6. Chapter 6

“… the minute he wakes up.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll be sure to call you.” Phil scrubbed the hand not holding his phone over his face and looked at Barton’s unconscious form in the hospital bed.

“Dammit, Phil, how many times have I told you to stop calling me sir. Is there anything he needs? I dunno, fruit or something? Why do we give people who are in hospital fruit, anyway? I never understood that.”

“I, ah, think it goes back to when fruit was more expensive and harder to get. For the vitamins or something.”

“Right, well anything he needs, you tell me. You know the drill. And call me-“

“The minute he wakes up. I will.”

“Thanks, Phil.”

“You’re welcome, sir.”

Phil hung up before Tony could complain at him again for the ‘sir’. He was about to sit back down in the surprisingly comfortable chair by Clint’s bed when the man himself stirred.

“Clint? Can you hear me?”

Clint’s eyes fluttered open and swam around the room for a moment, then zeroed in on Phil’s face.

“Coulson,” he said… or tried to say. His voice was rough and his throat was scratchy and no doubt sore from the breathing tube he’d been on during surgery. Phil knew how horrible that was from experience, and he quickly brought a styrofoam cup of ice water, complete with bendy straw, over to Clint’s bed. He pushed the button to raise the head of the bed to a half-sitting position, then put the straw to Clint’s lips.

Clint swallowed twice then released the straw.

“Better?” Phil asked.

“Yeah, thanks. So, uh, I got shot, right?”

“Yes. You were dancing with Pepper when someone tried to kill Tony, or possibly Pepper, or both of them. It’s hard to tell what his intentions were. Do you remember?”

“Saw a gun. I just reacted.”

“Well, you reacted right. You saved Pepper and Tony, and he’s very grateful.”

“Uh, good.”

“How’re you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a truck. How bad is it?”

“Not bad. The surgeon took a dozen bullet fragments out of your gut. He’s pretty sure he got them all, but they’re going to do another x-ray to make sure.”

Clint nodded with the understanding of someone who’d been shot before.

“They sewed up all the holes in your intestine. You’ll be eating soup and Jello for a couple of weeks, but apart from that you’re going to be fine.

“Good. Uh, thanks. For being here, I mean.”

“Natasha’s been sitting with you too.” Phil didn’t know why he made a point of saying that. Some bizarre sense of fair play, probably. Though what was fair about this situation? Clint didn’t have a clue how Phil felt about him. Then again, Phil had no idea if he was even interested in women… Phil’s train of thought was interrupted by a nurse bustling in to check Clint’s vitals. He took the opportunity to call Tony, because he knew if he didn’t, there would be hell to pay, later.

“Hey, uh, Coulson?” Clint said after the nurse had left. “When, uh, when I was lying on the floor, bleeding out. I, uh, told you my real name, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did. I’m pretty sure no one else heard it, though, and if you’d rather I didn’t use it-“

“No, I, uh… I liked hearing you say it. And not just because I thought I was dying. I… you’ve been really good to me. And everyone seems cool with… stuff. So, uh, if it’d not gonna cause a lot of trouble with paperwork or something, maybe… Maybe it’s time for me to be Clint Barton again.”

“I’ll take care of the paperwork, Clint.” Phil said, using his name just to see the smile on his face.

“That’d be great. Thanks.” 

“Do you want me to tell the others? Or would you rather do it yourself?”

“Would you? I mean, you could kinda explain, maybe?”

“Of course.” Phil wondered how much Clint thought he knew about his past, about why he’d taken an assumed name in the first place. But he didn’t ask. 

“I know I keep saying it, but thanks. For everything.” 

Phil was spared figuring out a reply by Tony bustling into the room followed by Pepper who was carrying a bunch of flowers and a box with the Apple logo on it.

“So fruit, right? What’s up with that? So here,” Tony gestured and Pepper handed Clint the box. “I brought you an iPad. It’s got games and stuff on it, or you can watch porn or whatever. Your room has wifi, I checked. It’s okay as long as you’re not in intensive care, apparently. Which you’re not, which is great.” Tony finally stopped talking to breathe.

“What Tony is trying to say, in his own adorable but backwards way, is ‘Thank you very much for saving our lives, Mr. Benton.’”

“Barton,” Phil said gently.

“I thought it was Benton?”

“No, it’s Barton.”

“Barton, cool. Yeah, thanks. Thanks a lot. So, I don’t know if Phil here has already told you,” Tony looked over at Phil, who shook his head. “I’ve got a kind of a tradition. Anyone who takes a bullet for me gets anything they want. Within reason. One time deal. So, a gold Rolex, or a trip around the world or your own yacht? Money’s no object. Well almost no object. But whatever you want, you got it. Guy was gonna shoot me, or Pep, and you got in the way. I respect that. I know it’s your job, but I want you to know I’m grateful. So think about it. Whatever you want. I mean that.”

While he’d been talking, Tony had unpacked the iPad and connected it to the hospital wifi. “So here you go.” He handed the iPad to Clint. “Anything else you need, you tell Phil here, or you call me directly. You have my number?”

“Uh, I’m not sure.” Clint, unsurprisingly, looked like a deer in the headlights. 

“Here, I’ll write it down for you.” Pepper fished a card and a pen out of her purse and wrote, then put the card on Clint’s table-tray. She laid a hand briefly on his arm. “Thank you,” she said, and Clint blushed a little.

“You’re welcome,” he said, then looked pleadingly at Phil.

“Clint probably needs to rest,” Phil said, herding Tony, who was bouncing on his heels and looking like he wished he still had the iPad in his hands, towards the door.

“I thought it was ‘Clive’.”

“It’s Clint.”

“Right. Okay,” Tony said from the doorway. “Clint. Thanks a million, buddy. You rest up and think about what you want. I’m not gonna take ‘no’ for an answer, just ask Phil here. I bugged Steve for a week until he finally told me he wanted that bike. So don’t be a jerk about it, just think of something and let me know. Sky’s the limit.”

“Thank you, Tony,” Phil said, and Pepper took the hint and dragged Tony out of the room.

“Sorry,” Phil said moving back to Clint’s bedside, “I should have warned you.” 

“No, uh, that’s okay. He’s serious, isn’t he, about buying me something for saving his life?”

“Yes. And he won’t stop bugging you until you come up with something that he thinks is a suitable reward. So no asking for something small, or donating money to charity. Tony likes his grand gestures.”

“So that’s how Steve got that bike of his, huh?”

“Yes, a couple of years ago someone tried to kidnap Tony. Steve, ah, foiled the attempt and got shot in the shoulder. That’s when Tony started this ‘tradition’. Look, you’re probably tired. I’ll let you get some rest. Natasha will come by later to see you. Let me know when you’re up to visits from the rest of the team. Oh, I’m so sorry, I should have asked this earlier. Is there anyone you want me to contact? Friends, or…” Phil let the sentence trail off because he couldn’t bring himself to say ‘relatives,’ knowing what he did about Clint’s family.

“No, that’s cool. Thanks. And uh, maybe wait on the rest of the team until tomorrow, yeah?”

“Absolutely. If there’s anything you need, anything at all, you call me.”

“I will, thanks.”

Phil nodded and forced himself to walk out of the room. He didn’t want to go. He wanted to sit by Clint’s bedside all day. But that wouldn’t be appropriate. Clint needed his rest, and deserved his privacy, too.

~~~~~~

“Thanks,” Clint said for the third time, and Phil stepped over and put a hand gently on his shoulder.

“You’re welcome, Clint, but it truly wasn’t a big deal.”

“Yeah, but still.” 

Phil turned to look out the window as Clint struggled into the sweatpants and t-shirt that Phil had brought him.

“So, um, there’s kinda another reason I asked you to go pick up this stuff for me at my place,” Clint said. 

“Oh?” Phil moved back to Clint’s bedside. 

Clint was staring down at the iPad Tony had brought him. It was switched off, but Clint was turning it around in his hands nervously.

“Uh, yeah, so like, Tony’s called me a couple of times to remind me about my ‘reward’ and I, uh, had a question. Well, a couple I guess, and I thought maybe you...”

“I’ll do my best,” Phil said and sat down in the guest chair.

“So, uh, Tony keeps talking about ‘money’s no object’ and how I can have anything I want. And, I mean sure, I could ask for, I dunno, a really cool car or something, but…”

“There’s something else you’ve thought of, something you want more, but you’re not sure about asking for it.”

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

Phil shrugged. “It makes sense.” 

“Yeah, okay. So, uh, the building I live in, it’s kinda shitty, like you saw. The other people there, well, most of ‘em work two or three shitty service jobs just to make ends meet. And the owners are assholes. They never fix anything, they raise the rent every year, and they get really nasty if anyone pays late. There was this time the old guy who lives below me was late because his social security check got screwed up and the asshole owners actually sent a leg-breaker to threaten him. An old man, can you believe it?” Clint shook his head.

Phil had a pretty good idea what had happened to the leg-breaker. “So you’re thinking of asking Tony to buy you an apartment?”

“No! Well, um, not exactly? I was thinking, I mean I know it’s a lot more than Steve’s bike, but he did say anything, and I mean, the tenants would all still pay rent and everything, so he’d get some of it back, right?”

Realization downed on Phil. “You want to ask Tony to buy your apartment building.”

“Yeah, and uh, maybe fix it up a little. So that the heating actually works properly in the winter and there’s water pressure in the showers…” Clint was looking down at his hands again. “I mean, he seems like a good guy so he’d be fair to the people who are late on the rent and stuff.” Clint looked up at Phil. “Is it too much to ask for, do you think?”

“No. No, Clint I don’t think it’s too much to ask for. I think it’s a great idea.” Phil felt a wave of affection. He’d already known that Clint was loyal and honest, but to find out he had a big heart as well… “Would you like me to explain it to him?”

“Would you? That would be awesome, thanks. I mean, I just feel so weird asking, even though he keeps bugging me about picking something. You’re sure it’s not too much, or too complicated or something? I’m mean it’s not like he can just call a store and give them his credit card number like if I wanted a… gold Rolex or something.”

“Tony already owns several buildings besides Stark Tower. He has a real estate management department that will take care of everything. It may take a while for the purchase to go through, but Tony won’t have to do anything more complicated that sign a couple of papers. In fact, one of his lawyers will probably be able to do that for him.”

“Oh, good. Thanks. Again.”

“You’re welcome. So, how’s the stomach?”

“I never in my life thought I’d be this sick of eating Jello, but man, I can’t wait to be on solid food again. Just the thought of a cheeseburger makes me want to bust out of here.”

“Don’t. You need time to heal up properly.”

“I know, but it’s gonna be weeks, the nurse said, because apparently I can’t go home by myself because of something or other. And besides, I’m as weak as a kitten right now and my apartment’s on the fifth floor. I wouldn’t be able to make it up the stairs anyway…”

~~~~~~

“Okay, you just stay there for a minute while I get the…” Phil ducked out from under Clint’s arm and left him hanging onto the back of a chair while he went back to the front door where he’d dropped Clint’s bag when he needed both hands. He moved the bag into his apartment’s short hallway, and closed and locked the door, then went back to Clint. “Right, now we’ll just get you over to the sofa.

“I’m okay, just give me your arm to lean on,” Clint said, “Jeez, who knew that you needed your stomach muscles so much for walking. And sitting down, and standing up, and just about everything…” Clint sighed as he levered himself slowly down onto Phil’s couch.

“Will you be okay there for a couple of minutes while I put this in the spare room and go make us some coffee?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. Go do what you need to do, man, don’t bother about me. I’m just gonna sit here and enjoy the view being different from walls in my hospital room.”

Phil grinned a little at that, then went to make coffee. It had taken some convincing to get Clint to come and stay with him, but faced with another two weeks in hospital until he could climb stairs on his own, he had finally relented. For the past five days Phil had visited Clint every day. They’d played cards and chatted. Phil had updated him on the progress of Tony’s purchase of his apartment building (which was going at lightening speed, thanks to Tony’s money and influence). Clint had opened up a little and they’d swapped stories about their stints in the military and their respective tours in the Middle East.

Having Clint living with him for a couple of weeks was going to test Phil’s ability to keep his feelings buried, but it would be worth it to know Clint was more comfortable and happier than he’d been in hospital. He dropped Clint’s bag on the spare bed and wondered about unpacking it for him. Clint still couldn’t stand up for very long. Phil decided to wait, and offer later. He spent a few minutes setting out spare towels and an extra blanket, and then admitted to himself that he was nervous. He went back to the kitchen and poured the coffee. Clint was only allowed two cups a day for the next week, which he bitched about even more than the Jello. Phil doctored Clint’s with two sugars and lots of cream, and left his own black. He carried them both into the living room to find Clint exactly where he’d left him, sitting on the sofa. Except ‘Hawkeye’ was staring intently at one of Phil’s bookshelves.

“Captain America comics? Really Coulson?” Clint had an absolutely delighted grin in his face, as if he’d discovered Phil’s’ secret vice, which in a way he had. Phil felt his ears redden a little as he sat down and handed Clint his coffee.

“Here light and sweet, just how you like it,” he said in a lame attempt to change the subject. 

“Thanks.” Clint took his cup and blew on it. “So, give,” he said, looking back over at the bookcase.

Phil sighed. “I was a lonely nerd as a kid. I didn’t have many friends. I loved comics. They were… they were my company. Reading about big brave heroes made me feel a little braver myself.” Phil crossed to the bookshelf and looked at the collection of action figures on the top shelf. Some of them from his childhood, some more recent. He tried to see his collection through a stranger’s eyes; it had been so long since he’d had someone in his apartment that he had forgotten what it might look like. 

“Okay, sure. Why Captain America? Rather than, I dunno, Batman or Superman or Spiderman—he was always my favorite. I wanted to be able to climb up the sides of buildings.”

Phil shrugged, “I don’t know, something about him just…” Phil gave up dissembling and touched his favorite figure lightly before turning back to face Clint. “He was honorable. True to his ideals. He always did the right thing. I, uh, I wanted to be like that.” Phil looked up expecting a grin on Clint’s face and instead found him gazing intently over the rim of his mug. Clint took a sip and them put the cup down. 

“Why’re you doing this Coulson?”

“You asked me about…” Phil gestured at his collection.

“No, I mean why did you pretty much insist I come stay with you? I was fine in the hospital. Bored, sure, but fine. Or you could’ve asked Tony to get me a hotel room and hire a private nurse. But you… you seemed to really want me to stay with you.” Clint’s voice was quiet, but his eyes were steady on Phil’s.

Phil wanted to make some sort of excuse, play it down. But he had never lied to Clint. He didn’t want to start now. 

“I care about you.”

There was a long silence, during which Clint’s eyes didn’t leave his. Finally Clint swallowed and said, “Come over here?”

Phil crossed to the sofa, putting his coffee cup down and sitting on the opposite end, bracing himself for Clint to let him down gently.

“Say that again. Please?” Clint’s voice hitched, and the sound made Phil’s heart pound.

“I care about you, Clint.”

“Coulson, I–“

“Phil. Please, whatever you’re going to say. It’s… my name is Phil.”

“Phil, if I was in any shape to do anything other than sit here on your sofa, believe me, I’d be all over you right now. But since I’m not, I’d very much like for you to kiss me. Please? Phil?”

Phil was moving before he’d consciously made the decision to. As soon as he was close enough, Clint’s hands were on his arms, pulling him forward, and he was leaning in, his mouth an inch from Phil’s. Phil closed the gap and felt Clint’s warm, dry lips on his. The kiss was slow and gentle, soft and sweet. It was nothing like what Phil had expected and everything he wanted. Their lips parted and touched again, still slow and gentle, but with contained heat.

Phil’s brain was screaming at him, but he didn’t want to listen. He wanted this. Clint’s injuries were the only thing stopping him from shoving him into the cushions and tearing his clothes off. The fierceness of that desire was what stopped him. He pulled back.

“Don’t stop,” Clint whispered into his cheek.

“I’m sorry. I can’t… this isn’t…” Phil pulled away and stood up. “I’m sorry, Clint. I can’t do this.”

“Why not? I want it, you want it. What wrong?”

“What’s wrong is that I’ve wanted you since the minute I laid eyes on you!” Phil knew he was almost shouting and took a breath to try to calm down. “Watching you dancing in that club made me hard. I jerked off thinking about your body every night for a week.”

“Oh yeah?” Clint’s eyes were smiling and he had a wide smirk on his face. “Glad to know I was earning my money. I still don’t see the problem, though.”

“I looked into your background because I was practically obsessed with you. When I found out who you were, what you could do, I convinced myself that offering you a job was logical and rational because we needed more people and your skill set fit the team.”

Clint cocked his head to the side and looked at him narrowly. “So are you saying I don’t really belong on the team? That you just hired me for my very fine ass?”

“No, god no. Of course you belong on the team. You saved Tony’s life with your eyes and your reflexes and your aim, of course you belong on the team! What I’m trying to say is that it isn’t right for me to get involved with you because I only hired you after… after I…” Phil faltered. He knew he wasn’t making much sense. He didn’t know how to explain to Clint the overwhelming feeling of shame at coming so close to taking something he’d wanted for so long.

“I noticed you,” Clint said into Phil’s frustrated silence. “That night at the club. I saw you sitting at your table, and I noticed you. I’d only been working in the club for a little while, but you get to know the types of people who come in pretty quickly. You obviously weren’t the tired businessman you were pretending to be. Most people would have been fooled, because you play it so easily, almost unconsciously I bet. You fade into the background almost anywhere. But there was something about you. Not just the way you looked at me, because I saw that too, I could see your eyes and I saw how much you wanted me. But even while you were watching me dance, you were aware of everything else going on in the room. Like a cat sitting quietly, pretending not to notice the bird it’s about to pounce on. And that was fucking hot. I was dancing for you that night. Just for you.”

“Clint,” Phil started desperately. He was half-hard in his pants just hearing Clint’s side of that night.

“No, let me finish, Phil. You came back the next week, and the week after that. You asked to talk to me. I was hoping you were going to book a private party. I was gonna offer you sex, if you wanted it. I don’t do that. I don’t ever do that, because I’m not stupid and I’m not desperate. But you were fucking hot and you seemed interested and I wanted you. So when you offered me a job working for Tony fucking Stark, instead…” Clint’s voice had gotten loud and a little angry. He stopped and shook his head.

“So then the only way I was ever going to see you again… The only way I was going to have a chance to find out anything about you—since you already seemed to know everything about me—was to come work for you… So if you’re all twisted up because you think you offered me this job under false pretenses, then you should know that I accepted it under false pretenses.”

“That doesn’t fix anything.” Phil said, feeling sad and defeated. “The fact remains that getting involved with you wouldn’t be…”

“Honorable?” Clint asked, his eyes flicking to the Captain America figure on the bookcase that Phil had touched earlier.

“Don’t tease me, Clint, please.”

“I’m not. I don’t mean to. I just… Phil, you gave me a shot. You pulled me out of where I was… You gave me the chance to be part of a team of pretty damn cool people. You made me believe I could make a difference. A real difference by taking bombs away from bad guys. You trusted me, and you taught me things without making me feel stupid for not knowing them. Even if I hadn’t already been into you, I would have fallen half in love with you just for that. Don’t push me away because you’re disappointed in yourself for being attracted to a pole dancer.”

Phil looked up sharply at that. “I’m not…” but he was. His better judgment had been compromised by his libido. He could come to terms with that, and move forward, with Clint, or he could continue to be a stubborn ass about it and… “I’m sorry,” he said, sitting back down on the sofa. “Fuck, I’m so sorry for being an idiot.”

“Hey, I’m an idiot too. Often. Which you will find out pretty soon, I’m sure. So, uh, could we go back to the kissing? ‘Cause I really liked it.”

Phil leaned in, took Clint’s face in both his hands, and kissed him.


	7. Epilogue

“Wow,” Clint said. He was standing in the middle of his apartment, his duffle dropped at his feet, looking around in wonder.

“Do you like it?”

“Like it? It’s amazing.”

“Good. Tony wanted to totally modernize the whole place but cooler heads, that is to say Pepper, prevailed.”

Clint’s apartment had been extensively renovated, but in a way so subtle you wouldn’t have known unless you’d seen it before. The old, pitted wood floors had been sanded down and polished. The exposed brick in the living room had been sandblasted. The cracks in the plaster had been expertly repaired and the walls re-painted. The cheap sagging kitchen units had been replaced with plain, but sturdy wood. The sink, fridge and stove were new, but they were basic models. The place looked almost exactly the same, just… brand new.

“All the plumbing has been replaced. Your shower works properly. So do the radiators. There’s solar water heating on the roof and a new ultra-high-efficiency trash-burning furnace in the basement.”

“This is… this is great. I mean, I’m not surprised Tony wanted to do something extra for me, but he didn’t need to buy me new appliances…” Clint gestured at the fridge and stove.

“Not just you.” Phil said, rocking back on his heels with his hands clasped behind his back and grinning. 

“Huh?”

“Every apartment in the building has a new, high-efficiency fridge and stove, new kitchen units, and new bathroom fixtures. Tony checked, or rather, the architect and interior designer Tony hired checked, and most of the stuff wasn’t up to code anyway, so it all got replaced.”

“Tony bought everyone in my building a new fridge?”

“Yes. The apartments are all going to be renovated this, too, but we… that is to say Tony and Pepper wanted to do yours first, in time for when you moved back in.”

“Wow. That’s just… Mrs. Alvarez in 203 must be over the moon!”

“That I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t here, I just, ah, consulted a little.”

“Consulted a little, huh?” Clint walked over to where Phil was still standing near the door and pulled him in for a kiss. “Thank you.”

“It’s Tony and Pepper you should be thanking,” Phil said, smiling and in no hurry to move out of Clint’s arms.

“Oh, I will. Not like this, though,” he said, kissing Phil again. “I’ll sent Tony a text and I’ll buy Pepper a big bunch of flowers. What kind? Roses are for people you’re dating, and I know lilies are for funerals, and carnations for weddings and graduations and things… what kind of flowers do I send for ‘Thank you for making a whole bunch of hard-working people very, very happy’?” Clint punctuated the question with little kisses down the side of Phil’s face.

“I, ah, I’d just call the florist and ask for a ‘Thank You’ bouquet. I’m sure they, ah, do them all the time.” Phil was trying not to be too distracted by Clint’s lips which had now migrated to his neck, but Clint was doing his best to be distracting.

“Hmm. Yeah. Good idea. Thanks. Speaking of good ideas, let’s go see what the renovations in the bedroom look like,” Clint said, and stepped back, grabbing Phil’s hand.

“Clint.” Phil hung back. In the three weeks that Clint had spent at his place recuperating, they had progressed from gentle kissing to slow and careful but satisfying mutual hand jobs. Phil had steadfastly refused to go any further than that until Clint got the okay from his doctor and physiotherapy team. 

“Do I need to actually show you the paperwork? I even got the doctor to write, 'Is allowed to have vigorous sex' on it, because I knew you’d be like this.”

“Like what?” Phil said, though he knew damn well.

“Like all, ‘Are you sure it’s okay, I don’t want to hurt you’. What we’ve been doing over the last few weeks has been great, but I’m fully recovered now and I’d very much like to haul you into my bedroom and have mind-blowing sex.”

Phil’s cock was already completely on board with that idea, and rising to the occasion, which made it difficult to remember why he’d been objecting in the first place. Sensing a chink in his armor, Clint moved in again, thrusting one thick, muscular thigh between Phil’s legs and his tongue into Phil’s mouth. Clint kissed him, deep and filthy, while he rubbed against him for a long minute and then pulled back. 

“I want us to go to my bedroom and get naked, and then I want you to do whatever you want to me. Whatever you fantasized about after you saw me dance that first time. Whatever you imagined you were doing while you were jerking off in bed at night. I’ve been waiting three weeks for this.” Clint reached down and cupped Phil’s hard cock through his pants. “Waiting’s over.”

Need and want and desire spiked through Phil and he made a noise in the back of his throat that was half-way between a growl and a moan. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Clint said and tugged his hand again. This time Phil followed willingly. 

The bedroom was painted a soft lilac and there was a new purple coverlet and high-thread count, Egyptian cotton mauve sheets on the bed. Phil may have just picked them out and emailed a link to Pepper. 

“Tell me,” Clint said, turning and facing Phil. “Tell me what you want.” His eyes were blazing. 

Phil swallowed. His cock was hard and throbbing in his pants, but he wanted to do this right. “I want to see you. Take… take your clothes off?”

Clint didn’t do a striptease, not quite, but he grinned and flexed as he pulled his shirt over his head, and held Phil’s eyes as he unbuttoned his fly. He pushed his jeans and underwear down in one fluid motion, then stepped out of them. Even the awkward seconds he spent taking off his socks somehow seemed sexy to Phil. Clint stood in front of him, waiting.

“Lie down,” Phil said, pointing at the bed with his chin. He knew Clint was completely recovered. Knew he’d been spending an hour a day on a treadmill under the watchful eye of a physiotherapist for the past week, but still… 

Clint gave him a knowing smirk but lay back on the bed, his hands clasped behind his head. Phil moved to the foot of the bed and looked. 

Clint was stretched out in front of him. Now he could see the regimental tattoo on his right bicep, and the angry red line of a healed gash along the left side of his ribs. He could also see the new neat scar from his stomach wound, bisected with the small puckers of the surgical staples that had been holding Clint together three weeks ago. But he could also see the lean muscle of Clint’s arms and legs; the strength of his body. And the curve of his hard cock, curling up towards his stomach and twitching under Phil’s gaze. 

His eyes still roaming up and down Clint’s form, Phil started to unbutton his shirt. “I’d been going to that club for years, and I’d never seen anything—anyone—like you. You were gorgeous and dangerous. Your dancing was graceful and obscene. You captivated me and made me embarrassed for being there.” Phil shrugged his shirt off and undid his belt. “Because I wanted you. I watched you dance and I wanted you. So much.” He let his pants drop and dealt with his socks, then straightened up knowing full well that his hard-on was clearly visible through his boxers. “More than I’ve wanted anyone or anything in a very, very long time.” He pushed his underwear down and let his cock spring free. 

If it hadn’t been for the way Clint was looking at him with obvious appreciation, Phil would have been embarrassed. He was in decent shape, but he knew his body couldn’t compare to Clint’s. But Clint was carefully holding himself still, waiting. Letting Phil have what he wanted. 

Phil climbed onto the bed and straddled Clint’s body, bracketing his shoulders and hips with hands and knees. 

“Mine,” he growled, kissing Clint hard. 

“Yours,” Clint agreed when their mouths parted. “Now fuck me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to Tinzelda for beta-reading!
> 
> Find me on Tumblr at: [Jo Mathieson](http://jmathieson-fic.tumblr.com/)


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